


The Hubris of Man

by KittyKenway



Category: The Last Kingdom (TV), The Warrior Chronicles | The Saxon Stories - Bernard Cornwell
Genre: Battle of Winchester, Eadith plans her escape, F/M, Finan is pining, Haesten is a creep, Implied/Referenced Dubious Consent, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Lovesickness, Mutual Pining, Osferth being a sweetheart, Post-Season/Series 04 AU, Season 4 AU, Siege of Winchester, The end of season 4 but more Finan and Eadith, Winchester is a tinderbox
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-07
Updated: 2020-09-06
Packaged: 2021-03-05 21:33:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 23,034
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25772137
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KittyKenway/pseuds/KittyKenway
Summary: 04x10 rewrite. Finan loses patience with waiting and comes up with a plan to save Eadith and the others. Meanwhile, within Winchester, besieged now by both Edward's army and the pestilence, Eadith must find her own way to escape and survive.
Relationships: Eadith & Finan (The Last Kingdom), Eadith/Finan (The Last Kingdom)
Comments: 13
Kudos: 35





	1. The Darkness

**Author's Note:**

> This began as a simple 'what if there were more scenes between Finan and Eadith in episode 10?' then somehow turned into my CampNanowrimo 2020 entry. The story is currently undergoing editing, but I will hopefully be releasing chapters as and when I think they're ready. Hope you enjoy.

In time, she grew used to the darkness. She didn’t know how many days had passed—eight, nine perhaps. She had lost count of the times Haesten returned, clambering up the ladder and thrusting open the hatch door. Sometimes he brought her a clean bucket to use, sometimes he brought food and ale. Sometimes he didn’t come at all, but sent a boy in his place with mumbled apologies. Always he came (when he did come) with slimy words and slimier caresses, although even his loose tongue proved guarded. At first he wouldn’t tell her anything. What Eadith learned, she learned from playing him at his own game, using her own sweet, slimy, twisting words to learn of Winchester’s fate. 

The city was under siege, still in control of the Danes, but the Saxon army was growing outside their gates by the day. Not that the Saxons could break through their city’s own defences easily. It was an unusual situation to be in for the Danes. Haesten seemed especially bemused by their fate; Danes were so used to being the besiegers, they were not accustomed to playing the besieged. He did not seem to understand the need to ration their food or to take stock of their ale, if the sounds of his men feasting below the attic were anything to go by. It seemed every night for his men was a new festivity and Eadith wondered when she too would be dragged down the ladder and made to celebrate with them. She hardly imagined Haesten was keeping her for her conversation alone.

When he was gone, and he was more often gone than not, she was left alone to her thoughts and to the darkness. The attic in which he had stowed her away was long and narrow, containing only a few old barrels and straw that had smelt like it had not been changed in a few moons. Haesten, fearing (with good reason) that she would escape at first opportunity, had bound one of her wrists to a support, but she still had her other hand free. She had tried to pull herself free, to pull the knots loose, but she only succeeded in making the knots somehow tighter. It was a miserable existence.

Through a gap in the thatch above, she could spy the sky, guessing the time only by its colour. She had kept count at first, as the days turned to nights and back to days again, but even then that slipped her by.

There was little else now but her thoughts. She might have been truly alone for the first time in years, but it seemed even then she could not fully escape those she had left behind, the ghosts of her past. It was Eardwulf that she saw the most, the shade of her brother sat watching her from the attic’s depths. She would wake from dreams with a start, imagining for a moment that he was leaning over her, grasping her skull, before she would fully awaken and his shade would disappear.

She knew it was not truly him. He was dead, slain only a few streets away, and so perhaps it could only be his ghost. She had not seen him die, but Haesten had confirmed it to her. According to Haesten, he had shat himself, when the Dane thrust the sword into his back. He liked to repeat that particular detail often.

Sometimes, in the darkness, it was not the drunken, broken Eardwulf that stared back at her, or the king-slaying, ambitious monster, but the hopeful man her brother had once been, so full of promise and life. The boy whose future seemed so certain, so bright. How had it come to this? His mouth would open, the promise of a smile, but the words were always the same. He always damned her as a whore, as nothing.

Sometimes, Æthelred joined them, the ghostly prince with his shattered skull and his golden curls slick with blood. She never saw him for how he had been in life. He didn’t speak much, but he was there, a shadow looming over her brother, the final straw on the back of their relationship. He would just stare out from the depths of the attic, his gaze blank and confused as it was on his sickbed. She might as well have been trapped in his sick room still; the attic had the same atmosphere, like being trapped in an oven. Sometimes, she almost could smell that same stench of death, of blood and pus, hanging heavy in the air.

When Haesten came and she could speak, Eadith imagined herself again at Ægelesburg, playing that careful game of words as she had done with Æthelred. A little bit of give there, a little bit of take; she needed Haesten to value her if she had any hope of escaping this situation alive. Sometimes, when Haesten’s hand was in her hair, or his fingers brushed over her face, Eardwulf would appear, his voice ringing out from the darkness: “whore”. It seemed little had changed or would change for her. She had thought this part of her life was over, but, once again, she found herself the plaything of men who wanted only her beauty and her body and little else besides.

When Eardwulf’s words became too much for her, she would close her eyes and bury her face into her knees, as she had done when they fought as children. It was then that she would allow her mind to wonder, away from her confinement and out again into the shaded cool of a Mercian forest or onto a sun-soaked field of barley. She could almost hear them, above the rustle of the trees and the distant birdsong, the familiar bickering and laughter, snatches of conversation. She imagined that she could see them again, all of them: Uhtred, Finan, Sihtric, Osferth, and the children. When the nights grew cold and she found herself shivering in her worn silks, she recalled sleeping together in a warm bundle, like badgers in a den. She even found herself missing Osferth’s snoring, or the way Æthelstan would kick in his sleep, and how Ælfwynn fidgeted and tugged at her hair. She missed that sense of family, of the sense that someone would notice if she fell behind or stumbled. Of that familiarity of waking up to the same faces every day, but not minding that. Only looking forward to falling asleep beside them all again the next night.

She wondered if they remembered her. They were bound to have assumed she’d taken the first opportunity to escape or to sell them out. Perhaps they thought she had reached Stiorra and Æthelstan, that she was laying low somewhere waiting to help rescue them before the city fell to chaos. She hoped they thought well of her enough to assume her plan had succeeded. She did not want them to think of her as a failure or as someone who would betray them. They were the closest thing she had left to a family and, though she had only known them for a matter of weeks, she did not know what she would do if she lost them. Her whole life had slipped off-course and they were the only thing she had left to anchor herself to.

It was Finan who her thoughts turned to the most, though she tried not to. The handsome, burly warrior, who always seemed so willing to be the first in a fight, yet had been scared almost witless by the summer pestilence. He was always so silver-tongued, quick with a jib or a jape or a joke, and so sure of himself, but he could be kind as well. Not kind in the way that some people behaved, making a whole song and dance about their deeds, but in a silent, sincere way. How he would fuss around Osferth, making sure his arm was mended, or making sure they all ate. How he would carry the others’ bags if they appeared to tire. How, when they had been running, in that last desperate dash to reach Winchester, he made sure she never fell behind. She could almost feel his hand in hers again, keeping pace with her, helping her along. He had never said he would do it, or ever made a scene out of doing it; he just did it. 

And sometimes, she would catch him, when he thought no one was looking, looking at her. One time she had caught his gaze and raised an eyebrow in challenge only for him to go immediately into retreat, a warm flush rising in his cheeks. She did not catch him staring again. In time, she hoped to catch his eye again.

She found she didn’t mind his attention. She was so used to men who she did not want wanting her and being relentless in their pursuit of her, caring little for what she wanted. She was not used to a man wanting her, but holding himself back, keeping his interactions to playful talk and warm words. It made her feel wanted, it made her feel valued, it made her feel in control, not forced to dance the same old steps of holding a man at arm’s length. She missed the easy way she could be around him, not playing the wily courtesan, but being herself, or as much of herself as that was left. 

She missed them all, but, she supposed, she missed Finan the most. 

When the nights grew especially cold, it was him that she imagined lying next to, his strong arms wrapped protectively around her. She thought of the way he had tried to talk her out of sneaking into Winchester and she wished she had listened to him. Her plan had failed—a stupid plan, she cursed herself, in hindsight—she had not found Stiorra or Æthelstan, and now she was a captive of the Danes herself. She wanted to see him again, for real and not just behind her eyelids or in her memory, but then again she did not want to see him. It was confusing! She didn’t want him to know that she had failed him and that she had failed the others. She had failed one family, as Eardwulf’s shade was keen to remind her, and now she looked set to fail another. 

* * *

“Finan, you need to eat.”

“I’m not hungry.”

It was becoming almost a routine. Osferth would nag at Finan to eat, Finan would refuse, and the pair would go around in circles until Finan relented and took a bite of whatever was put in front of him. Tonight, it was onion and wild garlic stew, one of Osferth’s concoctions, and it wasn’t bad, even if Finan found he had no taste for it. He had no taste for anything anymore.

It had been over a week since Edward and his army had attacked the walls of Winchester, days since they had been driven back, leaving their dead and their wounded to roast beneath the town’s walls and the baking July sun. The army had fallen back, taking refuge out of range of the Danes’ bows. They waited each day for some sign of weakness in the captured city, for some offer of terms from the besieged. But each day the main gates of the city remained closed to them and any attempt at breaching the walls was forced back.

It had been longer than a week since Eadith had left them, and, as with the city’s new captors, they had not heard anything from her since. Stiorra, Uhtred’s daughter, and Æthelstan, the royal bastard they had been protecting, were also trapped in the city and no word had escaped regarding them. They could all be dead for all they knew.

“She’ll be alright,” Osferth said, and not for the first time that day. He knew Finan was worried for all three of them, but he also suspected that he worried for Eadith in a different way and for different reasons. He might have been raised to be a monk, but he was not blind or stupid. “She survived Æthelred and she survived us. She’s probably found somewhere to hide in the town.”

“Baby Monk is right,” Sihtric agreed. Finan smiled wanly at his friends; he knew the use of his nickname for Osferth was for his own sake, a means of cheering him up. “She’ll know not to draw attention to herself. She didn’t have enough time to get out before they locked the gates and she’ll be biding her time.”

Uhtred, their lord and Finan’s oldest and greatest friend, sat down beside them at the fire, taking a bowl from Osferth with a small murmur of thanks. He was quiet, the knowledge that his daughter was held under the control of his enemies weighing him down. It had been a hard year already for him, what with the loss of Beocca and their failed attempt at reclaiming Bebbanburg, his birthright. It had now culminated in this: the capture of his daughter, and so soon after he had lost his lover, Æthelflæd, to her vows of chastity as ruler of Mercia. Seeing Uhtred downcast like this only made Finan feel worse about his own glumness. It put a perspective on his own problems, of feeling lovesick for a woman he had only met recently, and so he made himself eat his stew and cracked a few jokes. They all seemed to go down as well as a cold bowl of Osferth’s stew.

Uhtred stayed with them for a while, pushing his food around his bowl, until Pyrlig was calling him over for another meeting at the king’s tent. Finan had sat in a few of these meetings and they seemed to solve nothing, all the assembled lords snapping at each other and chasing their own tails, while Winchester remained just outside of their reach. It would be the same again this evening, and Finan went to join Uhtred, but Sihtric waved him away, telling him to stay and rest and that he’ll watch their lord’s back that night. It was good of Sihtric to offer, but it was pointless. Finan would not sleep—he couldn’t sleep, he couldn’t eat, he couldn’t even really think anymore. (The bards never sang of situations like this!) He could only lie back and stare at the canvas roof of his tent and let his thoughts and regrets swirl around him, until morning came and the day began all over again.

Still, Uhtred would not let him accompany him, ordering him to stay and to try to rest. Finan followed these orders well enough. He took some of the strongest ale he could find and climbed into the tent he shared with Osferth, but he did not sleep. He drank, and he thought, and he drank some more, drifting away with his thoughts. Perhaps he might have fallen asleep at some point. 

It had begun some time when they had all been on the run together, when they were being pursued by Edward and Eardwulf, and then by the sickness, on the road to Ceaster. Those hazy days, he remembered, amid the Mercian wilderness. He had noticed her before—who couldn’t? She was beautiful with her long red-gold hair and green eyes, and she was beautiful in that cold, aloof way noble ladies tended to exhibit. As if she could hold you down with one look and break you apart with one swift move of her tongue. Finan had always thought he liked simplicity when it came to romantic pursuits: no chase, no games, only the sweet coming together of two whose feelings were simple and mutual. It wasn’t as if he had ever struggled to find lovers before, he was a handsome man with an easy charm and was a natural flirt to boot. There was rarely a tavern without a willing wench or a market without a bored housewife. His loves were many, countless, and quick to burn, leaving behind good memories for the most part, and only a few broken hearts in its wake.

Yet the Lady Eadith was something else. He had suspected her intentions at first and had not been quiet about it, wondering aloud why she would want to travel with them. He did not imagine that made her warm to him at first. She kept to herself for much of that first morning, riding along in silence or beside Uhtred. She did not even bother to laugh at his jokes and they must have been good ones as the others laughed easily enough.

But then everything had changed when they came across those disease-ridden bodies in the forest. When they had been made to abandon their horses and cart and set off on foot towards Wenloca. Most of the noble ladies he knew from his time at Winchester and Æthelflæd’s estates would have baulked at the thought of walking so far on foot, but Eadith seemed to accept the challenge, even if a little unhappily. Finan did not notice her much that day—his mind was a little preoccupied with the nervous sense that he was sickening for something, every tickle in his throat or twist of his stomach a prelude to a shit-encrusted death—but her icy demeanour had melted by the time they reached Wenloca. He thought he recalled hearing her laugh at something.

She had not baulked again when they came to Wenloca only to realise they had surely missed Æthelflæd. It was an uncomfortable thought for them all, having walked all that way only to be told they needed to walk all the way back. They were exhausted and stressed, feeling pursued by both the bad air and the guards. It did not help that the whole countryside stank of the burning bodies of the infected.

That first night was a tough one. They could light no fire, fearing that they would draw attention to themselves, but the night was warm enough and they had dry foods they could eat. As if drawn by routine, they all sat together in a little huddle, even without a fire to draw them close. And they spoke then, even if only as part of a group.

“I suppose if I will be travelling all the way back with you now,” Eadith had broken the silence first, “I should get to know who I’m travelling with.”

“You know who I am, don’t you?” little Ælfwynn piped up. She had been tearful since Wenloca, having had her hopes up to see her mother. But she had cheered since then, although she was looking more flushed than Finan would have liked. Finan had hoped it was only travel weariness that ailed her. 

“Of course, I do, my lady,” Eadith had said, brushing some hair from the girl’s face. 

“I take it you know my father,” young Uhtred had said. The older Uhtred had gone to scout the area, to make sure no one was too close for comfort. “I am Uhtred Uhtredson and this is my little sister, Stiorra.” Stiorra pulled a face at his use of the word ‘little’. 

“And you are?” She had turned to Osferth then, who, of course, had gone bright red under her gaze. Even now, the memory brought a smile to Finan’s lips. 

“Osferth, Lady,” he had stammered. “I’m one of Lord Uhtred’s men.”

“He is Baby Monk, Lady,” Finan remembered saying, and Eadith had looked puzzled at that, so Osferth was made to explain how he had come to join Uhtred having first been raised in a monastery. The more he spoke, the less he stammered and the more comfortable Osferth seemed to get in her presence.

“That’s quite a story,” Eadith said. Ælfwynn had fallen asleep now, having shifted to settle against Stiorra. “Did you learn much fighting at the monastery?”

“No, all I learnt was from Uhtred and my uncle before him. And I suppose this big bastard here taught me how to use a sword.” He made sure to clap Finan on the back.

“I taught you which way to hold one, before you cut up your pretty hands,” Finan retorted. “And enough of the bastards from you.”

Eadith had looked confused at that. 

“I’m King Alfred’s son,” Osferth explained, the colour rising again in his cheeks. For a king’s son, he did not like to bring it up much. Alfred’s memory was not always remembered so fondly by Uhtred and his men. “Not from the Lady Ælswith, mind you.” He added, his face darkening still. “My mother’s brother fought alongside Uhtred at Ethandun and before that. He told me to look for Uhtred when I was older, so I did.”

“And we’ve been trying to get rid of him ever since,” Sihtric added, earning an elbow from Osferth. 

“If we’re doing introductions, I’m Sihtric,” Sihtric had said. “And I’ve been here longer than either of these two.” He gestured to the others. 

“Only by a few months,” Finan interjected, but Sihtric was proud of that achievement and wouldn’t let it go.

“I’d better see if the lord wants a hand,” Sihtric said, rising to his feet. “But it’s been good to meet you, my lady.” He left, his introduction short and sweet.

“He’s a Dane?” Eadith asked, after he had gone out of sight. She gestured to her throat where her crucifix dangled. She had been quick to note Sihtric’s hammer amulet.

“Half a Dane,” Finan said, before his face grew uncharacteristically grave. “It’s best not to ask him much about where he’s from. We all have stories to tell, but Sihtric’s… his isn’t the happiest, though he has been around the longest. Even longer than those two.” He jerked a thumb at young Uhtred and Stiorra.

“And you? What’s your story?” Eadith had then said, those green eyes of hers falling on him. He had thought, for one terrible moment then, that he was going to blush, taking on Osferth’s mantle as the group’s blushing maid. “You’re not a Dane then?” Her hand had again gone to clutch her crucifix, looking at his. She must have gathered from his accent that he was no simple Saxon. 

“No, thank God, no,” Finan remembered saying. “I’m Finan.” For a moment, he had been tempted to use his full name then, but it had been years since he had used his father’s name and he had already half forgotten it. “From Ireland.”

“It’s good to meet you Finan from Ireland,” she had said with a slight turn of her lips, and Finan could’ve sworn he heard Osferth groan at that, but then Æthelstan was crawling over to settle against Eadith and she was distracted for a moment.

“And who are you, Lady?” Young Uhtred spoke up. “How do you know our father? Are you one of Lady Æthelflæd’s ladies.”

“No,” she had admitted. “I’m Eadith, I was Lord Æthelred’s…” She caught Æthelstan looking up at her with his big eyes and Ælfwynn sleeping beside her. “Friend, I was Lord Æthelred’s friend.” 

“And you’re here because…?” Stiorra had said. She had grown up under Lady Æthelflæd’s care and knew better than most that Æthelred might have had ‘friends’, but Uhtred and his men were not counted among them.

Eadith had paused there, almost like a deer cornered by a hunter. If she could’ve, she might have followed Sihtric off looking for Uhtred, but then she sighed and admitted why she was there.

“My brother is Eardwulf of the Mercian Guard,” she explained. “He… He was… We were both favourites of Æthelred, but after Æthelred was hurt, my brother was told they would make him the next Lord of Mercia if he married Ælfwynn.” 

The others seemed to take that in their stride, but Stiorra pulled a face.

“How old is he?”

“Thirty years, I think,” Eadith shook her head. She only knew he had always been there in her life, a solid presence. “But no matter his age, he is… he was… His ambition blinded him to reason. He wouldn’t make a good husband or a good lord,” she said. She left it at that.

Uhtred and Sihtric had returned by then and they had all settled down for the night, the warriors sitting guard while the others slept in a huddle beneath a great oak tree. Despite the uncomfortable end to her story, Eadith only seemed to thaw more after that. She had laughed more the next day, easily and for longer, and she had even joined in their conversation, pointing out features or things she recognised in the landscape. Finan remembered little Ælfwynn flagging. He should’ve known the child was sickening then, but he felt happier to carry on in denial. Eadith had remained a protective hold over the girl, keeping her close by her side, helping her along and tending to her when she grew tired and feverish. Finan was kept busy himself by little Æthelstan, who like most little princes proved to be a troublesome, little bleeder, always wanting to splash in any stream they could find and making Finan carry him over every hill.

Finan smiled at the memory, tugging at the crucifix he wore around his neck. He missed that boy awfully, another permanent nagging ache in his gut. He missed his bright chatter, the way his eyes would light up at every little thing, how he would cling to Finan’s hair with his little fists. He could only pray that the Danes were looking after him. He knew better than to expect much from Ælswith and the rest of the royal family.

He didn’t realise that he was warming more and more to Eadith until that moment her brother had cornered them, trapping them between his men and the body-choked river. She could have sold them out then easily, she could have passed Ælfwynn over, but she spoke up for them, against her own brother, accusing him of murdering Æthelred and stealing his ring. Her outburst had saved them, even at the cost of her brother’s position and life, but it took real guts to do that. He had no doubts about her after that.

As he lay back now, in his lonely tent, all he could hear were the summer insects out in force, the sounds of an army camp at night. He tried to recall the soft sound of her laughter, but he found he could not remember them. He remembered her eyes though, the way they shone, the way they crinkled in the corners. He thought of the way her hand would absently slip to the crucifix she wore around her neck, fiddling with the cross between her finger and thumb while she spoke. He didn’t even think she knew she was doing it.

He clutched his own crucifix, bringing the gold cross to his lips. It was not the same cross his father had made for him all those years ago. That cross the slavers had torn from him; likely they sold it for drinking money and change. That cross had been larger and fancier, but Finan found he loved this one more. It had been the first thing he had purchased for himself, after he had been freed from slavery, the first shop he had stopped by in Eoferwic. It was meant to symbolise resurrection, the priests told him, and it did to him, but his own resurrection, not just Christ’s. He had been reborn that day on the beach, when his sword had pierced through Sverri’s throat.

“Pull.” He could almost taste the sweetness of the revenge in his mouth again, although then it had only tasted of salt and bile, of struggling to make the word sound out from a mouth parched with thirst. 

He thought his path after that had been a simple one, to follow Uhtred and to make a home for himself wherever his lord went. But he sensed a change now, no sudden rebirth or resurrection, no clear line of demarcation in the sand. He sensed it in his gut, in the itch he felt in the back of his head. 

He had to find Eadith again.


	2. Small Mercies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Beware Haestens bearing gifts.

She was sleeping in the long summer grass, beneath an endless blue sky. Around her, she could hear the others, though she could not see them: the faint, playful bickering of Finan and Sihtric, the odd peal of laughter from Osferth, a snort here and there from Uhtred. The children were playing and squealing happily in the sunshine, Æthelstan and Ælfwynn running amid the meadowgrass. Young Uhtred was humming to himself and Stiorra was teasing him for sounding like a cricket. She thought she could smell the lazy, warm air then, feel the brush of a wildflower against her cheek. She thought she could hear the summer chorus of birds and bugs above her.

She almost forgot where she really was.

“Wake up!” Haesten was climbing the ladder up to the attic, struggling to manage the ladder rungs and hold a bucket at the same time. “Wake up! I’ve got a surprise for you.” He slammed the bucket down, spilling water as he did so.

Eadith sat up, staring at him warily from behind bleary eyes. The colour of the sky through the hole told her it was afternoon, late afternoon. Since the Danes had taken the city, no church bells were rung and so she remained dependent on the sky for her bearings. She did not like the sound of what Haesten considered a surprise, recalling how he had hung Uhtred and the others by their feet from a tree in some deranged attempt to kill them. Whatever his surprise was, she hoped it would be quick and painless.

“Catch.” He threw something solid and wrapped up in cloth to her and she caught it awkwardly, one hand bound still. She thought it was food at first, an oddly shaped loaf, but the smell of it stopped her before she could take a bite. It was soap.

Haesten was watching her from where he sat, amused, almost as if he hoped to see her bite down on it and receive a shock. He was to be disappointed.

“For you,” he said, waving a hand over to the bucket. “You should wash.” 

She was filthy, she knew that. Her silken lilac dress was meant for lazy days at the Mercian court, not for a frantic dash across Mercia and then lying for days in a dirty, infested, straw-strewn attic. She could no longer smell herself, which was a small mercy, but she did not imagine she smelled pleasant. Haesten was already wrinkling his nose; his gesture made Eadith recall something her brother had told her once, of how the Danes were notoriously clean. 

“I’ve got you this as well,” Haesten continued, gesturing to the lad he normally used to bring her things when he was away, who was then climbing up through the hatch. Eadith looked from him to Haesten, confused. The boy (he couldn’t be more than fifteen at most) also looked confused.

“Not him!” Haesten snapped, dragging the boy over. It was then that she saw that the boy carried something: a package in his arms, something wrapped in linen. Haesten pulled it from the boy’s arms and thrust it into her hand.

“For you to wear,” he explained, as she pulled the wrapping away, finding a gown beneath. It was soft and blue and beautifully embroidered in gold thread. It was finer than anything she was used to, finer even than her silks, and she wondered how Haesten had acquired it.

“Thank you,” she said, not that she felt especially thankful. The gown felt heavy in her hand. “What’s this for?” She didn’t like where this was going. She hardly expected him to want her to dress up if he planned to keep her like this, tied up and hidden away. 

“It’s been long enough now,” Haesten said. “Your arse-licking goat-shagger of a brother will be forgotten about by now. It’s time I showed you around the town.” It seemed he wanted to show her off to the other Danes, not unlike how Æthelred used to dangle her around Ægelesburg like a bauble. He too had liked to gift her clothes and make her dress up for him.

At least it meant that Haesten would untie her. She was able to rub the spot where the rope had burnt into her wrist. It felt good also to be able to stand and stretch again, even if she had to crouch beneath the low ceiling to do so, and it felt better to be able to wash, even if she had to do it in front of an audience. It seemed to be part of the charade for Haesten, who made a point of sitting, cross-legged on the floor, not taking his eyes off her as she made to remove her soiled clothes. The boy had more shame and tried to leave, but Haesten made him stay, albeit standing over by the hatch. He did not give a reason why, but Eadith supposed he feared she would make a dash for it now that she was untied. Not that she would have gotten far, without a weapon, without clothes, and surrounded by hostile Danes. Then again, there was always the bucket. She imagined herself picking it up, throwing the soapy water in his foul face, and lamping him around the head with it. The thought brought a smile to her face.

Haesten seemed to mistake that smile for something else.

“It’s pretty,” he said, eventually helping her tie up the stays at the back once she had pulled the dress on. She grimaced as she felt his breath on the back of her neck, the tickle of his beard as he drew his mouth close to her skin. “They say it belongs to Edward’s queen.” 

She did not ask who ‘they’ were or where the gown’s former owner was. Rather she smiled and turned to him, taking his hands in hers, and thanking him with the voice she had once used for Æthelred. He seemed to like that. All the while, she tried to figure out where the bucket was and how many steps it would take to reach the hatch.

“Allow me,” Haesten said, interrupting her thoughts of escape, when she went to fix her hair. Her fingers were stiff from disuse, sore in one hand from the sudden rush of circulation, and she fumbled with the strands. Haesten proved oddly gentle for such a brutish man and adept at tying hair, braiding her hair until it hung down her back in one large red braid. 

“There,” he said, “as pretty as a queen.” There was no mirror or looking glass, but she had caught sight of her face staring back up at her from the still reflection of the water in the bucket. She looked anything but regal. There was a wan hue to her features, dark shadows under her eyes, and pieces of straw caught in her hair. There was an accusational look in her reflection’s eyes—a reminder that she was allowing all this to happen to her, that she was not fighting back. That she was cowardly enough to play along with them, all because she wanted to survive. What was the point of surviving when time and time again her life returned to the same state? She wondered, the thought coming unbidden and not for the first time, what Finan would do in this situation. 

The thought of him then was like a blade between her ribs, sudden and painful. He was bigger than her and stronger than her, and had killed more men than she had, she consoled herself. He would have broken free from the bindings, would have smashed Haesten’s smug face in, bucket or no bucket, and would have escaped the city, taking out Danes as he went. 

He would not have stood and watched as they murdered his brother in the streets.

He would not have smiled prettily at Haesten, nor thanked him gracefully. He would not have let him help him climb down the ladder, let him clutch his arm and march him up and down through the hall, where men were seated around long tables.

“Enough,” Haesten roared to his men, waving them to settle down. Most had known Haesten was hiding something up in the attic, he would only allow his most trusted guards to stand beneath the ladder and he would only allow the youngest, the beardless boy, up there with food and water. Most had figured he was hiding a woman, but none had imagined her to be just that pretty.

“This is Lady Eadith, Æthelred’s whore,” he announced to the gathered men. “She’s not Æthelflæd, but she’s good enough.” There was laughter at that. Not all seemed to find it amusing, some returning to their drinks or to their plates, but some seemed to appreciate it. Eadith found herself staring up then at the ceiling, unable to smile anymore. She wondered how easily the wood could burn, how easily the building could collapse on them all. She wondered if it would hurt.

“She’s my woman. Mine. Any of you, arseholes, have a problem with that, I’ll send you to Niflheim with my sword up your arse!” More laughter. The wood was dry, the summer had been hot. A small spark would be enough for the thatch to catch. She almost wished that it would.

“Come,” Haesten said, and once more he was marching her away, dragging her by the arm, out into the streets. The city was empty, even though the sun was only just beginning to set. It felt good to see the sky again, to breath in actual air. The streets were so quiet, it seemed as if all the locals were hiding away, not daring to leave their homes for fear of being assaulted by their city’s new overlords. The Danes meanwhile appeared to be in their cups, if all of the folk sat outside the tavern, drinking, was anything to go by. Even under siege, with the threat of food shortages, there was enough drink in the city to keep the men content. Some called out to Haesten, asking who it was at his side, and how much she was worth. Haesten replied back, jovially, to each question, sometimes with a word, sometimes with an obscene gesture.

As they passed the main square before the palace, Eadith could not stop herself from looking. The dark patch on the flagstones could have been her brother’s blood—it was where he kneeled before he was slain—but it could just as well have been dirt or track marks left by a cart. She wondered, again not for the first time, if the Danes had bothered to bury her brother, or whether his head sat on a pike above the city gates. He would have had plenty of company there.

It was to the gates that Haesten seemed to be taking her. He seemed eager to show her something. Just as with the dress, Eadith dreaded thinking what it could be.

She avoided looking at the decapitated heads, just in case, but there was no way of avoiding the smell. It rose from beyond the battlements in a putrid haze. Eadith followed Haesten up the stairs to the walls, pausing to take in the view. Looking out over the surrounding countryside, she could see the sun low in the distant sky, the sky reddening behind a vast encampment. It seemed King Edward had called up the entirety of Wessex, although Eadith could only guess why he didn’t try to storm the city. Her answer came when she looked down, down at the ditch that curled around the city, where corpse after corpse lay, growing fetid under the hot summer sun.

Eadith gasped at the sight and retched. Her hand flew to her mouth as she felt her stomach clench and roll over. Haesten had told her there’d been a fight, Edward’s army throwing their strength against Winchester’s impenetrable gate and walls. She just hadn’t expected the casualty toll to be so high.

Looking down at the broken bodies below, strewn out, abandoned, but for the rats and the strays, she couldn’t help but think of Finan and the others. Had they been caught up in the fighting? Had they made it out in one piece? Or had they too been left to decay out in the open without even the promise of a Christian burial?

Eadith looked to where she had last seen them, beneath the tree in view of the walls, the tree where she had voiced up her decision to enter the city alone. The tree stood just out of range of the gates, if the broken arrows littering the ground measured anything. Some of Edward’s men were gathered there, watching the city as they talked among themselves, but she did not recognise them. It was not who she wanted it to be.

Haesten saw her looking out and then back over the side of the palisade and instinctively he pulled her back, grabbing her arm as he did. He seemed loath to give her an opportunity to escape him, be it alive or dead. 

“You get used to the smell,” he told her. “Come on.” He pulled her further along the city walls. Eadith caught one last look of the tree as he did. 

Above the gates, there was a sentry post. Two Dane guards stood, leaning against the walls, but they didn’t so much as acknowledge them as they walked past. The only person within the sheltered walkway was a young man—Eadith did not imagine him to be much older than Haesten’s boy guard, but there was an authority about him that seemed at odds with his age. He held himself up, hands clasped behind his back, looking out over the surrounding fields with a curious stare. His hair was long and fair and unbound, resting over his shoulders in lazy curls. It was only when he turned to look at them did Eadith recognise him, spying the long scar that crossed his face. It was the man who had sentenced her brother to death.

If the man recognised her, he didn’t say anything, turning back to stare out towards the rival encampment. 

“They come and they come again,” he said, his voice surprisingly soft as he addressed them. “When will they learn they can’t simply walk through walls?”

Haesten snorted, but more out of politeness than genuine amusement. It was strange to see him acting so deferential to a boy who was barely half his age. 

“They are not used to being on that side of the wall.”

The other man’s mouth curled at that and then he turned to address Eadith, his pale eyes meeting hers. Eadith felt a shiver of fear pass through her then, wondering if this was the last thing her brother saw before the darkness fell over him. For a terrible moment, she imagined him drawing his sword on her, those pale eyes being the last she ever saw. She supposed it would be quick.

“You are the woman who shouted for that arse-licker. The whore he used to know.” His words were harsh, but his voice was not without kindness. “What is your name?” 

She told him.

“She was Æthelred’s whore, before he died,” Haesten interjected.

Eadith bristled, but the other man only nodded, seemingly impressed with this development. It seemed Winchester was an unexpected treasure trove of political hostages.

“The king of Mercia?”

“Lord.” She found her voice, when it came, was hoarse from disuse. “He was the lord of Mercia, though he called himself king often enough.” She imagined him then, his betrayed eyes staring out from the dark corners of the room, his tin crown resting on his shattered skull. She quickly looked away.

“He’s dead. Æthelflæd rules there now.” The young man looked almost bored as he turned to stare out at the besieging army again. “What does that make you now?”

“My woman,” Haesten spoke up. “She’s my woman now. I found her.”

“It doesn’t sound like you found anything. If I remember, she walked into the city of her own freewill,” the younger man continued. “Have you not received enough of the wealth from this venture, Haesten? You were not even here when we took the city.” Again his words were harsh, but his tone was light. It was unsettling to be in his company. 

“I could do with more. And I brought you the king’s mother and his son, as well as the Dane-slayer’s daughter.”

Eadith’s eyes widened at that. She went to ask after them, but stopped herself, realising then with a sinking heart that her questions would only lead to more questions rather than any answers. At least she knew they had reached the city alive.

The young man did not seem to notice any reaction on her part. He only chuckled at Haesten’s words.

“Do not fear, Lady,” he said, turning to her. He must have sensed her apprehension, but his smile seemed genuine enough. Despite his words and despite his smile, there was a steely coldness to his pale eyes, as if the warmth from his smile could never reach them. “You are safe under Haesten’s protection. I have no quarrel with you unless you give me reason.” He reached forward and Eadith flinched, but he only went to grasp the crucifix she had dangling around her neck.

“Pretty,” he said. “But I would not let Brida see this if I were you. She hates Christians and she hates their nailed god. She would make a sport with you if she could.” Another cold smile and the young man was walking past, arms again behind his back, out into the evening sunshine.

“Who’s Brida?” Eadith asked, as Haesten walked her back outside. Other guards were already taking up their post inside the sentry post.

“You’d know her if you see her. She is a hard woman, but she fights well enough. She’s mad though, mad as a box of frogs. And fat,” he grasped his own belly, rubbing it with a grin. “Fat with child.” 

Eadith wondered if what he spoke was true, it was hard to imagine a heavily pregnant woman leading an army of Danes, but what would she know? She’d never been pregnant herself nor had she ever led men. 

“Sigtryggr is right,” Haesten said, jutting his head down to where Eadith could see the young man walking back towards the palace. “Brida would skin you if she saw you wearing that.”

Eadith gulped, pulling the crucifix up and over her head. It had been a gift once, from her brother back before she was Æthelred’s mistress. She held it in her hand then, her thumb brushing over the silver, over the engraved Celtic pattern. Her brother had been so proud on that day to be able to buy her silver. It must have cost him a chunk of his salary then, but he wanted them to look good, on the day he introduced them both at the Mercian court. He told her how much he wanted to give her nice things and have the world look on them in envy.

Looking out over the city walls, her thoughts turned back to Finan and the others, the way they all wore their various amulets with pride. She thought of Finan’s cross, the way he would bring it to his lips at times, when he was thinking or praying. She wondered if he was praying much now. She realised, only just as she was about to cast it aside, how little she had used her own crucifix for prayer.

Grasping the silver in her hand, she threw it as far as she could over the side of the walls. She did not see where it landed, disappearing as it did among the dead below. She wondered again if the fall from the city walls would kill her. Whether it would hurt much in that last moment or whether she would lie there, among the dead, injured but alive still. 

She wondered if it would be preferable to this.

She stared back down at the detritus, staring long enough until her vision blurred and spun. Haesten did not like the way she was looking over and made to drag her away, promising her a dinner fit for a queen, and more after that. If she had stood there longer, if she had not allow him to pull her away, perhaps she might have seen the figure crawling below, the man pulling her crucifix loose from the debris.


	3. Treasures

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finan finds something of Eadith's and Eadith longs for an escape.

It had been when Uhtred was busy politicking after his return to Ægelesburg and when it had seemed given that they would become men of influence in Mercia. It had been a happy enough day for Finan that day, one spent using that newfound influence to secure free food and ale from the tavern keepers wanting to ingratiate themselves. Finan hadn’t involved himself as much in any actual politicking—he had never been one for all of that slimy talk and secret handshakes. He did what he could to stay away from it all, while remaining steadfast in his support for Uhtred.

When Uhtred had asked him to go and check on Ælfwynn, Finan had obeyed with his usual willingness to help. The little girl had recovered quickly from her bout of sickness and was back to her usual playful self. She had apparently badgered her nurse to take her and her cousin, Æthelstan, to play in the woods beyond the town walls, and, although they were well guarded, Æthelflæd still feared that someone would steal the two children for their own political end. 

Finan did not mind the idea of spending a summer afternoon outdoors, although he would have rather spent it indoors drinking, but he had not anticipated Eadith being there. Ælfwynn had taken a liking to the woman after she had cared for her on their run across Mercia, and so she had invited her to come along to play with them. Eadith was laughing when he arrived, moving around in an odd fashion, arms outstretched and a blindfold over her eyes. The two children darted and ran past her, giggling and prodding her as they passed. Finan watched their games for a moment, before Æthelstan spotted him and nearly ruined the surprise, going to shout out his name. Finan silenced him quickly with a hasty finger to his lips, before he came over, careful not to make a sound as he approached.

Eadith was close to catching Ælfwynn, her hands stretched out before her. She made a lunge forward, but the little girl darted out of the way just in time. Losing her balance, Eadith had stumbled forward and Finan, all thoughts of a practical joke flying out of his head in that moment, caught her then by the arms before she could fall.

Eadith had not been expecting that: that sudden jolt as someone had caught her. She hastily snatched the blindfold from around her eyes, gasping and then sighing with relief when she saw who it was who held her.

“Finan,” she gasped, straightening herself up. Her face was nearly as red as her hair and she looked mortified. “I– I didn’t realise you were–” She faltered on, before she couldn’t help herself. She was laughing all of a sudden, shaking her head at the bizarrity of it all. Finan too was laughing, neither quite noticing that she clung to him still. When they did notice, they were quick to break apart with mumbled and embarrassed apologies. The children had found the incident funny at first, but had quickly grown bored of waiting for their game to resume. They had since run over to pick flowers amid the grove, drawing their nurse over to follow them and leaving their two adult friends to talk in relative privacy.

“I wasn’t- I wasn’t spying on you or anything. The Lady Æthelflæd sent me to make sure you were alright.” It was Finan’s turn to struggle to find the words. It wasn’t normally this hard—he had been born with the gift of the gab as his old mother had liked to say, but somehow his tongue kept tripping over the words. Eadith smiled, understanding his embarrassment; she took a seat on the children’s swing, the blindfold still in her hand. She waved him over.

“I thought as much,” she said, in that bright way of hers. She gave herself a little push, her toes digging into the dirt beneath. “Thank you for not letting me make a fool of myself and landing on my face.”

“It’s not a problem. I’m known to be quick.”

“Quick?” She caught his eye and the corner of her mouth twitched as if she was about to burst out laughing again. He could’ve cursed himself then and there. There were things that a man wanted to be known to be quick for, but not that...

“For most things,” he hastily corrected himself. She raised an eyebrow, the colour still rising in her cheeks, her lips pursed as she struggled to hold back her laughter. Damn, it had been so much easier to talk when they had been on the run. His tongue hadn’t got itself quite so tied up in knots then.

“Here, let me,” he said, and went to stand behind her. He did not fail to notice how she seemed to stiffen at his words, shoulders hunched as if anticipating the worst, but she relaxed when she realised what he intended. Finan began to slowly push her on the swing. 

“I never knew Ægelesburg had a place like this,” he said, changing the conversation to something safe. He felt his old confidence gradually return.

“It isn’t all gloomy corners, I can assure you.” Eadith seemed to be enjoying the movement; she leant back, kicking her legs forward with each swing, her face raised towards the sunshine. 

“I wouldn’t have minded one of these when I was little.”

“I had one,” Eadith recalled. “Eardwulf and I–” She paused, the memory of her last encounter with her brother was still too raw. “... Eardwulf and I would dare each other to see who could go the highest. Eardwulf swore he once went over the tree branch and back down again, but I never believed him.” The memory was a happy one, but a bittersweet one. It had been the summer before their father’s disgrace, before they had lost their home and the swing with it. She never knew if the new thegn had kept the swing for his own children.

She sighed and stopped, straightening up, her feet skimming in the dirt. Finan took the hint and stopped pushing, grasping one of the ropes to pull the swing to a halt.

“Didn’t you fancy coming for a drink with the rest of us at the tavern?” Finan asked, lightly. “We drank a toast to you. We drank a few toasts.” His head still had the dull ache to prove it.

“You did?” Eadith seemed genuinely surprised at the idea of them toasting her.

“For not letting the Lady Ælfwynn die.”

“Ah,” Eadith snorted. “I suppose that is something to toast. I would’ve come, but… Ælfwynn asked me to stay.” The little girl looked anything but at death’s door at the moment, running around as she was. But it was natural that she had taken a shine to Eadith and that she wouldn’t want her to go anywhere, anytime soon. Finan wondered then how Æthelflæd felt, her child favouring her former rival.

“What brought you all the way from Ireland?” Eadith asked, drawing his thoughts back to the present. It was meant to be an easy change of topic, but she was curious also. “That’s quite a way to come.”

“I’ve had a long journey to get here,” Finan admitted. It had been a long journey, and not always the happiest. He hoped he wouldn’t have to tell her it.

“You’re happy living among the Saxons?”

“You’ve seen Uhtred. I wouldn’t call him much of a Saxon.” 

“I’ll give you that,” she said, smiling. “When I think of a Saxon lord, Uhtred doesn’t quite fit the image.”

“However he fits, he’ll be Lord of Mercia soon, so they say.”

“So they say.” If she was upset over the change in Mercian leadership, she did not show it. But whatever her opinions were about the political changeover, she knew well enough not to voice them, even here with only the trees and the birds to listen. 

“Uhtred would be good for Mercia,” she said, finally, as if she could hear his thoughts and sense his unspoken question. “He would stand up to Edward and Wessex, keep Mercia free and the Danes away from the border.”

“I didn’t realise Mercia’s independence was so important to you.” 

“You don’t think I spent all my time at Ægelesburg sitting around, playing sycophant?” She shook her head, before sighing. “No, it was something Æthelred and my brother spoke of a lot, but neither would have succeeded in making it a reality. Eardwulf would have curtailed at–”

They both looked up at a loud crash from across the grove. It was only Ælfwynn and Æthelstan playing at sword fighting with branches. Eadith felt her gaze settle on the princess.

“If anything good comes of this, it’ll be that she will have a chance now to grow up safe and to have the time to grow up. My brother might have talked of an independent Mercia, but he would only have been Edward and Æthelhelm’s toy until they tired of him. He would have only opened Mercia up to be broken apart more, and he would’ve been a terrible husband.” Her tone was bitter, but there was sadness in her voice too. It was clear that she missed Eardwulf, missed him almost as much as she reviled him.

“Where do you think he’ll have gone?”

“Frankia, I hope,” Eadith said. “After the guard deserted him, and me disowning him, there’ll be nothing left for him here. And, if not Frankia, he’ll be looking only to drink himself to an early grave.” She tried to keep her tone light, matter-of-fact, but she couldn’t conceal that this was all eating her up. She had known no other life but one where Eardwulf had been a constant presence.

“Do you have brothers?” she asked, suddenly, and Finan started.

“I had a few in Ireland,” he admitted. And that was about as much as he was willing to speak on the matter. He didn’t like to think of his brothers, who always somehow brought a shadow over him, even here, miles away. “But there’s Uhtred, Sihtric and Osferth. They’re more my brothers than my real brothers ever could be.”

Before she could ask any more questions, the children were running back to them, throwing their little arms around Finan. They too wanted to be pushed on the swing, and Finan was only too happy to oblige, although not before he scooped each one up and spun them around.

“Must you do that,” the nurse groaned, breathless from chasing the children about. “They’ll never want to come in now and we’ll be stuck out here until suppertime.”

Finan offered her an apologetic shrug, but Eadith was already vacating the swing, and the two cousins were clambering on, each clinging to a rope, their little legs kicking in the air.

“Hold on,” Finan instructed, before he began to push them, making sure the swing went higher with each return. The children whooped and cheered, soaring higher and higher until, later on that day, Æthelstan swore he had kicked one of the leaves in the tree. He never even got close, but Finan let him chatter on, when he helped put him to bed later. He remembered how Eadith had been there, watching him tuck the wee man in. He remembered how he had caught her smiling at them, her eyes alight, but, when he looked up again, she was gone.

* * *

He wondered if Æthelstan really had kicked one of the leaves. He just might have. Finan might have been on guard duty, but he hadn’t really been paying much attention to the children at that point. He didn’t remember what he and Eadith had been talking about then, all he could remember was her smiling up at him and him making her laugh about something, that warm feeling he felt when he remembered her laugh.

What he would have given to make her laugh again.

Night had long since fallen over the camp and Finan was already deep into his cups. He had not slept the night before, despite all the ale he had drunk, and tonight looked set to be the same. This lack of sleep was making him unusually irritable.

Osferth was normally astonished by the Irishman’s ability to drink, but now he was only concerned. It seemed Finan no longer drank for the fun of it or the taste, but out of some desperate need to drown something out. The drink seemed to blur the edges of reality for him, making the worry and the guilt he felt easier to bear. It helped him fall asleep too, even if he didn’t keep him asleep; sometimes he would doze off right there and then beside the fire, slumped forward over his tankard.

“You should go easy on the drink,” Sihtric told him that night, and Osferth was glad—glad he wasn’t the only one to notice and glad it was not up to him to tell Finan that. Finan was irate, he snapped something back, but Uhtred told him then to lay off the drink and that was enough to stop him. Finan emptied his cup and stuck to water after that, though it did little to improve his mood.

Finan was suffering, but so was Uhtred. As each day passed, their chances of saving the hostages grew only slimmer. These chances were not helped by the more militant of King Edward’s advisors, who saw the siege as a perfect opportunity to wipe the slate clean and to purge the land of a Dane army before they could strike out. So what if it meant the horrible deaths of the Saxons trapped in the city? Innocents were often caught up in the throes of war and their sacrifice would not be in vain.

Tell that then to the father of a daughter trapped in the Dane-held city. Stiorra was a capable girl, raised by the Lady Æthelflaed and one who had proved she could look after herself. But, as time wore on, the chances of her making it out in one piece grew only thinner. It did not help that Uhtred had since learned his former lover and now sworn enemy, Brida, was one of the Danes holding the city. If she figured out who Stiorra was, she would not hold back on sending the girl back to Uhtred piece by bloody piece.

This fact weighed heavily on them all. It was hard enough coping with the long, idle, restless boredom of a siege, staring up again at the same old section of wall, wondering what was happening beyond it. They were all silent that night, sat together, but each alone with their thoughts. 

“... what good is it you selling me a necklace? I don’t need a necklace, I need meat that doesn’t taste like it’s been left to rot in the sun.”

The man’s voice carried over as he and his companion walked past their fire, bickering in low voices. It stirred Finan from his melancholic thoughts and he looked up. One man was trying to escape the other, who kept trying to grasp the first man’s sleeve and pull him back, all the while as he made to grab something from his sack.

“It’s pretty though. Give it to your wife or to your fancy woman when you return. They’ll welcome you back with open arms.”

“My wife doesn’t care for trinkets, and besides that she has enough jewels to wear. Take the damned thing away and leave me be.”

The pedlar must have sensed a lost cause then as he left the man behind and turned instead to Uhtred’s group, all sat huddled around their fire. 

“Lords,” he bowed respectfully, a large gap-toothed smile on his face. “Might I interest you in a gift for your fair ladies?”

That was a sore point still for Uhtred—his relationship with the Lady Æthelflæd had been broken by her public vow of chastity, and he had no other lady to buy gifts—so he turned back to his ale, clearly uninterested. Sihtric, however, was aware of just how long he had been away from his own wife, and was conscious that he had some making up to do. Finan, too, was curious.

“Pretty, isn’t it?” The little man said, holding a crucifix on a silver chain. The firelight reflected off of it, revealing an intricate design that seemed to picque at Finan’s memory. He had seen a necklace like that before… “I can sell it to you for ten shillings.”

As Sihtric snorted at the price, the pieces finally settled in Finan’s brain. Just where he had seen that necklace before. Without warning, the Irishman was up on his feet, the little pedlar held aloft by the front of his tunic. Finan’s dagger pressed hard against his throat. In his shock, the pedlar had dropped the offending necklace, his little legs kicking as he tried to release himself from Finan’s tight grasp. 

“Where did you find that?” Finan hissed. Uhtred was quickly at his shoulder, his hand resting on Finan’s back while Sihtric‘s hand was on his arm. Still Finan would not release his catch. “Where did you get that?”

“By the wall,” the little man gasped, struggling like a fish caught on a hook. “By the wall! I swear it on the Almighty and the Virgin and all the saints, I found it honestly.”

“Did you see how it ended up there? Who disposed of it?”

“A woman, Lord. A woman threw it over the wall. It nearly hit me on the head, it did.”

“What were you doing beneath the wall?” Uhtred asked, his low voice menacing.

“Looking for ways to get in, Lord.” The little man was talking pure bullshit and they all knew it. He was no warrior and the way he spoke at the first sign of trouble suggested that he was no spy. He was a scavenger, one of the locals who would sneak onto the battlefield around the walls and take anything they could sell later at the camp for an extortionate price. If his rags were anything to go by, he wasn’t that successful at his occupation.

“When? When did she throw it?”

“Only this evening, Lord.” 

“This evening…? What did she look like?” His grip loosened on the man’s front and he helped settle him back onto his feet. He made sure though to keep a hold of him, just in case the man thought he could make a break for it. 

“I didn’t see much of her, Lord. I was right beneath her, but she had red hair, I remember that.”

“Long red hair?”

“Aye, not dark red, paler like. But I didn’t get a good look.”

“When was this? When did you see her?” The little man scratched at his chin, straightened his tunic.

“Before sundown,” he said. “They were saying prayers in the camp. I heard the priests singing from where I stood.” He went to stoop down and pick up the necklace, but a sword was suddenly at his throat. The little man straightened up, hands raised, as Sihtric scowled down at him. It seemed he would not make an easy profit that day. 

When the little man had finally escaped in the direction of more pleasant company, Finan sat down by the fire, the necklace dangling from between his fingers.

“She’s alive,” Osferth said, his tone jarringly bright compared to the others’ mood. “But she is! We have proof of it.”

“Aye, she’s alive, but how? Being out in the open like that.” Sihtric shook his head. It could only mean that Eadith had come to some sort of agreement with the Danes, though he did not want to be the one to suggest it. He only had to look at the crushed expression on Finan’s face to know he could not be the one to twist the knife.

“Why would she throw this? Is it a sign? Is she trying to send us a message?” Finan said, closing his first around the silver cross and bringing his hand to his mouth. He threw up a silent prayer on her behalf, in the hope that she’d be safe. 

Uhtred and Sihtric exchanged a look. It seemed like they were both on the same page about this. It was not a message meant for them, but a message meant for her new Dane overlords. Even if she had thrown her crucifix away willingly, it meant Eadith was under another’s control.

“She’s alive, Finan,” Uhtred spoke quietly, planting a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “We can be thankful for that. We will get her and the others out soon.” How, he did not know.

“Not if those fools intend to burn the city down around them,” Finan snapped. He took the crucifix and placed it over his head, tucking it beneath his tunic where his own crucifix rested against his chest. He stood up then and snatched up the ale jug from beside Uhtred. 

“I need to think,” was all he said, before he set off towards the direction of the city gates.

* * *

Haesten had long since fallen asleep, snoring, in the same position he had been when he had finally rolled off of her. Eadith lay on the bed and stared up at the ceiling; she felt numb. Like holding her hand in a pile of snow, she was beyond the pain now, the feeling long since drained out of her body. Only the odd prickle of pain to remind her that she lived still.

She wondered if this was all her life would come to, moving from one man to another, trading with the only thing she had left to her name: her looks. She supposed bitterly that it would not be forever, one day she would be a haggard, old crone and what would be left for her then?

She wrenched Haesten’s arm off of her, sitting herself up. She supposed it was an improvement on the attic, looking around Haesten’s room, but not much of one. The ghosts of Eardwulf and Æthelred did not think to show their faces here, which was some relief, even if her brother’s final words kept ringing in her ears.

Sleeping soundly, snoring softly against his pillow, Haesten looked almost gentle. She brushed one of the braids aside from his face and watched him mumble something in his sleep. She wondered how easy it would be to take a knife and to plunge it into his throat while he slept. She supposed it would be easier than the Dane she had killed in the forest. It would be like catching fish in a barrel.

The numbness was starting to retreat from her, replaced now by a stomach-churning nausea. She again wondered how it had all come to this. 

Pulling on her clothes, she dressed quietly, careful not to wake the sleeping Haesten. Pulling her cloak tightly around herself, she left him to his slumber and walked out into the tap room of the tavern. She was fortunate that most of Haesten’s men were sleeping off the night before and those who were awake at that time were in no mood to pay her any attention.

The guards Haesten had set at the door tried to block her exit, but she explained, as best as she could, that she needed to go outside, that she did not feel well. The guards seemed happy to let her go then; one of them was bound to have to clean up her mess if she made it then and there. They looked between themselves, before shouting for Thorsteinn. A pale face appeared then from between two of the tavern benches: it was the boy Haesten trusted with bringing her food when she was trapped in the attic. The guards ordered him to take Eadith outside for air and the boy groaned and grumbled, but got up anyway, following her bleary-eyed out into the cool, early morning air.

It had truly been a dinner fit for a queen, but Eadith had barely touched any of it. She did not think she managed a whole plate nor a whole cup of ale. Every time she had gone to take a bite, the memory of the dead beneath the walls came back to her, the smell overpowering her once again. She tried not to think of the dead, of their faces staring up at her, but sometimes, when she looked back through her mind’s eye, she thought she saw something she recognised. A flash of dark hair, dark eyes. She couldn’t shake the thoughts away. She had to be certain.

She turned down the street and made for the city walls, careful again to keep her eyes focused straight ahead as she walked past the palace. She wondered what she would do if she saw what she thought she had seen. Would she have the guts now to throw herself down? Would she look over and see nothing, nothing but dead strangers staring up at her from the ditch? She had to know.

Thorsteinn had gathered quickly where she intended to go and he was reluctant to be dragged along. Perhaps he suspected what she intended to do, perhaps he was fearful he would be spotted outside with her. He did what he could to try and pull her back, but everytime he tried, she would slip from his grip and keep walking on. In the end, he chose only to follow her closely, down the street and then up the stairs to the city walls.

In the faint morning light, she could see the distant camp stirring to life. Fires were being lit and smoke was rising, shadowy figures moving around in the reddening morning haze. She rested her hand on the wooden palisade and Thorsteinn took a step closer. His suspicions seemed to be coming true and he was bound to be skinned alive if he returned to Haesten empty-handed.

As the light rose, the sight of the dead scattered beneath the walls of the city became clearer. Staring down at the half-formed figures in the mud, the only movement coming from the armies of rats feeding, she wondered if she would spot someone she knew staring back up at her with sightless eyes. As she stared, she thought she saw a familiar face amid the wreckage. She thought she saw in the hollows of a skull the dark eyes of Finan, the laughter forever gone.

The very thought struck her harder than even she expected, coursing through her like a feverish chill. She had to steady herself, grasping to the palisade, causing Thorsteinn to grab her arm and to try and pull her back. She could not escape his grip then. He was surprisingly strong for such a scrawny lad and he was desperate to remain in Haesten’s good graces.

“In a minute,” she said, “in a minute.” The false smiles were harder to find today, her face still ached from playing happy mistress at dinner yesterday. She turned back to look out over the wall, to where she thought she had seen Finan’s body only to realise she was mistaken. Thank God. It could only have been a trick of the light, a shadow shifting, as she could not find his face among the dead again. The dead were there, in their countless many, but she recognised none among them.

Looking back up at the camp one last time, she went to turn back and let Thorsteinn lead her away, but something stopped her. She thought she saw someone slumbering under the same tree she had last seen the others. The figure stirred there, looked up, and drew himself quickly to his feet. He had said he was known to be quick.

He was very much alive. His mouth opened and he was shouting all of a sudden, his hands clasped around his mouth, but Eadith could not quite hear him from there. Pulling away from Thorsteinn, she rushed back to the palisade, half-clambering up the wooden wall, little caring for the drop below.

“Eadith!” Finan shouted, hands cupped around his mouth. “Eadith!”

“Finan!” she shouted back, overwhelmed with relief at seeing him there, alive still. And he knew she was here! He knew she was alive still. 

Too late, her impulsive shouts had drawn the attention of the other guards on the wall, who came then quickly to investigate all of the commotion. Thorsteinn was already there at her back, his arms around her middle and trying to drag her back, but she was desperate to hold onto this moment with Finan. She kicked back and must have caught something as Thorsteinn wheezed and his grip loosened.

* * *

Finan thought he was dreaming. He had finally fallen to sleep beside the tree just as the sky was beginning to lighten and the birds were beginning their infernal dawn chorus. He was glad to be away from the camp and from the others’ worried expressions and empty words of comfort. He wanted to wake to the sight of the gates, as if a solution to breaching them could be found in his sleep. At the very least, it made him think he was closer to those trapped in the city. He woke slowly, his eyes heavy and his mouth parched. He thought it was a trick of his mind at first, seeing that distant figure stood there, her red hair unbound and caught in the morning breeze. But it was undeniably Eadith. 

He didn’t remember jumping to his feet, only shouting her name with some mad rush of joy, and when she called his name in return, he thought his chest might burst. She had not forgotten them, she had not given up on them—and perhaps she knew then they had not given up on her.

She was trying to climb the palisade and for one heart-wrenching moment, he feared she would slip before his eyes, but then hands were on her, dragging her back. He could only watch, alarmed, as more guards appeared on the wall, surrounding her, dragging her back.

“Eadith!” He continued to roar, his voice carrying over the field of the dead. He was starting to attract some attention on his side. He made to step closer, but then an arrow came soaring straight at him, followed by another. He only darted out of the way in time. “Eadith!”

“Get back!” She was shouting, her voice carrying over. “Get back!” It was then that another arrow came whizzing just past his head and he quickly stepped back to safety.

It was then that a face Finan recognised well enough appeared above the palisade: Haesten. The last Finan had seen of him was when he had loomed over him as they swung, upside down, from his cursed tree. The man was there on the wall and it was he who was grabbing Eadith then, snapping at his guards to get back. She was clinging onto the palisade with all her might, but Haesten was stronger, pulling her back, even if his round face red with the effort.

It was worse than Finan had feared. Haesten looked up from where he was struggling with Eadith and seemed to pause, recognising Finan at once.

“You!” Finan could hear him roar. “How? What?” It seemed Eadith had not told him of their rescue from Haesten’s trap. His shock was palpable for all to see, worsening only when Sihtric and Osferth appeared then, drawn to Finan’s side, followed by Uhtred. Finan almost felt sorry for the wretched bloke—he had been so certain he had killed all of them.

Eadith seemed to sense the disappointment in Haesten, perhaps sensing a new danger that Finan could not see. She had raised her hands in mock surrender, allowing Haesten to drag her back from the walls, his round features pale with dangerous fury. He looked like he wanted to wring all their necks in turn.

“I’m sorry.” Finan thought he saw her mouth to him, before she disappeared from view, replaced by a line of guards, bows drawn at the Saxons below.

There was a great jumble of emotions going through Finan then: the surprised joy at seeing Eadith and knowing that she was thinking of him drowned out all of a sudden by the stomach-clenching fear of knowing she was in danger and in Haesten’s clutches.

Osferth was at his side: “I told you she would live.” He always did try to find the brighter side of everything. It was Uhtred’s hand on his shoulder that made Finan turn. There was a resolute clench to his friend’s jaw as he looked back up at the city wall.

“We’ve waited long enough,” he said. “It’s well past time we took the city back.” 


	4. Plans in Motion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things take a turn for the worse in Winchester.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for the lovely comments on the last chapter! Hope you enjoy this one...

“We have to save her.”

“It could be a trap,” Sihtric suggested, quietly. Finan turned to him, aghast, but his friend only shook his head. “I don’t think Eadith would be behind the trap, but Haesten could be. He knows now that Eadith has value to us; he’ll find a way to use that to his own advantage.”

“I should’ve killed that weasel bastard years ago,” Uhtred said, bitterly, and it was true. The four of them were gathered around an empty fire pit. The sun was at full height now and was blazing down on them as they talked. It was another long, drawn-out day of waiting under the sun outside the city gates.

Finan had not been around when Uhtred had rescued Haesten from a mob of vengeful Christians in Eoferwic, but he wished—and not for the first time—that Uhtred had walked on by that day and left the bastard to his fate. They had only come out of their last encounter with Haesten by the skin of their teeth and only because he hadn’t known Eadith was free to save them. Finan could still feel the stomach-lurching moment when Haesten’s men had pulled on the rope and had dragged him upside down. Haesten had been laughing the entire time. He had been like a cat playing with its food. Cruel games and mind tricks were his speciality. 

“He is Loki incarnate,” Uhtred continued, still regretting that day in Eoferwic long ago. At his shoulder, Sihtric nodded, his hand brushing over his hammer amulet.

“He’s a devil that one,” Finan added, “though I suppose the real Devil would smell better.”

Osferth snorted at that.

“He has Eadith though,” Finan returned to the point. “God knows what the bastard will do with her.” He recalled how Haesten had once lusted after Æthelflæd and how that lust had turned to hate after she thwarted him. It had led him down a twisted path towards vengeance and repeated attempts to hunt her down. He was anything but tender-hearted when it came to women who refused him. 

“There’s not much that we can do,” Osferth said. “Not while there’s so many holding the city. We’d need a way to get in, but those gates haven’t opened in days.”

“We can’t get through the gates, but can’t we climb the walls?” Finan suggested, but his idea only made the others look uncomfortable. They might have done such a mission in their heyday, maybe even enjoyed it, but they were not the young, reckless men of years before. To climb a wall into an enemy-held city would be almost-certain suicide. They might have had a chance if there were more men willing to back them up, but they could hardly expect the whole of Edward’s army, horses and all, to scale the walls with them. And it wasn’t as if this idea hadn’t been broached already in Edward’s war council—and summarily thrown out.

But Finan was earnest, seeing Eadith in the clutches of their enemy had only heightened his resolve. Her appearance on the walls was a sign, proof that she was alive and that there was a chance she could be saved: her, Stiorra, and Æthelstan. It was also a sign that time was running out. God only knew how long the Danes would hold Winchester, before hunger or thirst drove them to doing something desperate. Whatever they’d have to do, Finan would do it. He’d break through the siege by himself, if he had to, climb the walls single-handedly, before things went downhill as they were bound to.

“We find a way through the defences. They can’t be watching every square inch of the wall night and day, they don’t have the manpower,” he explained. He took his sword and scratched a rough circle in the dirt to represent the city walls. The others leaned in to look at his plan. He scratched out the gates and then circled the walls, scratching at two points, far from the gates, where he knew the neighbouring houses bordered a little too closely to the wall. Doing this reminded him of when he and Æthelstan had built Winchester out of mud and stones on the side of the pool. The memory brought a lump to his throat.

“Even if we get over the wall, where will we go next? How will we find them?” Sihtric said, softly. He raised his hands, in mock defense, when Finan scowled at him. “Sorry, we’ve got to hammer this out.”

“We’ll keep a low profile, we dress as Danes and keep our heads down and—You’ve got a better idea?” He added, annoyed, as Osferth and Sihtric exchanged a look.

“We don’t,” Osferth admitted, “but I suppose we’ve faced worse odds. How do we find them?”

“They’re bound to have guessed who Æthelstan is by now. They’ll keep him secure, in the palace. Stiorra…” Uhtred paused. “So long as they think Stiorra is Ælswith’s handmaid, they’ll keep her close by. The palace as likely as not. But would Eadith be there? She can’t have been that well guarded if she could reach the walls.”

“She’ll be wherever Haesten is,” Finan said, resigned.

“We’ll need a distraction,” Uhtred said, softly. He turned to look up at the distant city walls, his hand stroking his chin as he thought.

It was then that they heard a commotion behind them, shouts and a horse being driven full pelt through the camp, narrowly jumping over a nearby camp fire to the shouts of those sat nearby. The hooded rider jumped down from the horse and crossed to join them, stopping only with Finan’s sword at his throat. It was then that he pulled his hood back, revealing a familiar face, pale with anger and worry.

“Father, is it true?” Young Uhtred said. “Has Stiorra been taken by the Danes?” He was almost white-lipped with rage, his gaze turning on the distant city. 

“We’re working out a way to rescue her,” Uhtred explained, but his son was horrified.

“You mean you haven’t rescued her already?” he exclaimed. “How could you let them take her?”

“You’ve got a plan, boy?” Uhtred retorted. 

Young Uhtred looked at his father and then back to the walls. It seemed an idea was coming to him as he surveyed the city below.

“Not exactly,” he said, “but I might have an idea…”

* * *

When she woke later on, she thought for the briefest of moments that she was free. But then the memories came rushing back. She found herself exactly where she had begun: in the attic above the Goose. All the privileges she had been granted the day before had been swiftly taken away and she was bound again, both wrists this time tied behind the pillar. 

She had thought Haesten meant to kill her. He had not said a word to her as he dragged her back to the Goose and made her climb the ladder back up into the attic. But, when she finally had caught sight of his face, she realised to her horror that her display on the walls had amused him more than anything, once his shock at seeing Uhtred and the others alive had faded. He seemed to take some twisted joy in having something that Uhtred’s man wanted. He would figure out some way to use it, but, in the meantime, he would keep her safely hidden away. He said as much to her before he left, clambering back down the ladder.

“Next time, I’ll hang them by their scrawny necks and not their feet,” he had promised her, his hand moving to grasp her chin, his fingers poking painfully into her cheeks. She found she couldn’t pretend anymore, cringing at his touch. That seemed to only amuse him further. 

Hours had passed and he had not returned. She could only hope that he hadn’t fulfilled his wish yet, but there was no way for her to know. Though her situation was worse now than it was before, she could not regret shouting back to Finan; the memory of his face lighting up when he saw her was enough to warm her, even when locked away in this foul attic.

He knew she was alive and he knew she was being held against her will. She did not imagine Finan or the others were the sort of men to sit by and twiddle their thumbs. They would come for her, soon hopefully, and they would save her. She just had to hope she wasn’t leading them into any sort of trap.

* * *

“I heard your woman went mad on the walls.” Haesten did not even bother to look up from where he sat in the palace courtyard, but he gritted his teeth all the same. He was in no mood for Brida’s teasing.

“Were you that bad?” she continued anyway, waddling over in the way that Haesten usually found amusing, never having seen a pregnant woman in armour before. His mood was growing more mercurial as the day passed. “I heard she tried to fling herself off.”

“She didn’t.” But Haesten still wasn’t sure what Eadith had been planning to do. He had woken, feeling pleased with himself, to find the bed empty beside him. It had not taken long to find her, she had already attracted an audience among the men on the wall. Even when Haesten had pulled her back from the edge, she struggled, clinging onto the palisade with all of her strength. He feared he would have to break her fingers if she didn’t let go.

“This is what happens when you sleep with Saxon whores.”

“The only Dane woman about is you, Brida, and I would rather bed a she-wolf. My cock would be safer.”

Brida also grimaced at the thought and went to waddle away, but Sigtryggr was there all of a sudden, hands clasped behind his back. Haesten had thought he would spend longer in the reading room, the young man always seemed reluctant to leave Uhtred’s daughter’s side. 

“The Saxon king has sent word,” he announced to them. Brida grimaced again.

“You let a man close enough to speak? You should have shot him when he stepped too close.”

“The ditch is littered with men who thought they could speak to us, Brida, but who fell short of your bow. Their stink is making the city smell and the walls harder to guard.” Brida did not seem put-out by that, in fact she looked rather pleased with herself. 

“It seems the king doesn’t want his city back, nor does he want his family back either. He told us we may leave here by sundown, every Dane, and be escorted back to our ships or he will torch the city to the ground.”

“With his family inside it?”

“He says he has the tools to build a new city from our ashes,” Sigtryggr said. He looked almost bored to be relaying the message, only his eyes shone at the thought. He seemed entertained by the whole situation. “And he has the tools to make a new family.”

“I’d have expected something like that from Alfred, not from his pup,” Brida seemed genuinely surprised. “Does this mean I can–” Her hand went to the sword at her belt, her eyes turned to the direction of the chapel. The other two knew how much she itched to be able to put Edward’s family to the sword, his mother in particular. It seemed there was some bad blood between them from years back, but neither man wanted to hear about it.

“Do not kill them, Brida, we may have use for them.” Sigtryggr was already thinking ahead. “We have the upper hand for the moment, but there won’t be much we can do when the fires start.” The city was already like a tinderbox, a confined space full of dry wood and straw. There was perhaps enough water in the wells for a few more weeks of siege, but not enough to douse the city should it go up in flames.

“Have you had any word from our kin?”

“None,” Sigtryggr sighed. “Not that I expected any. My brother is raiding to the north and he will have raised the ire of Æthelflæd and her men. We can only hope he’ll keep them busy and they won’t have time to join her brother before he sets us all alight.” For all the talk of death by fire, Sigtryggr did not appear worried. Merely curious to see if Edward would keep to his word.

“You have done what no other Dane could do,” Brida said, coolly, turning to Sigtryggr. “Perhaps because no other Dane would have been foolish enough to do it. You have us trapped now in this damned city without enough men to hold it.”

It was then that one of Sigtryggr’s men appeared, pale faced and sweating profusely. He looked between them all with a worried expression, before he pulled Sigtryggr aside. The other two watched the younger man’s face, but he didn’t betray any emotion, only nodding slowly. He ordered his man to leave then and to do whatever it was quickly and quietly. The man bowed his head and ran.

“What is going on now?” Brida asked.

“Sickness,” Sigtryggr said, in his usual bored tone, “in the city.” He should’ve expected as much. The summer was a hot one and the air that hung over the city was bad enough, not helped by the bodies raising a stench from the ditch. As with Edward’s message, his reaction was stoic, but there was an edge to his expression that suggested he was not pleased with how things were turning. This hand was not the one he had been expecting to play with.

Haesten felt the colour leave his face.

“Is it the sickness they had in Mercia?” He had seen the victims of that on the road, their bodies left, bloated and abandoned, left in the grass and out on the fields. His men had even come across a homestead where all the inhabitants had died; it had become a cursed place, where only the dogs and vermin ruled now. Haesten had ordered his men to put the whole place to the torch. 

“It’s nasty whatever it is.”

“And now we are trapped in a disease-ridden city without the numbers to hold it,” Brida laughed, bitterly. “That arse-licker must be laughing at us from the bowels of his Christian Hell.”

“What do we do?” Haesten asked.

Sigtryggr only shook his head.

“We do what we can to contain it,” he said, at last. “And hope it can tell Dane from Saxon.” He was trying not to remember the sorts of sickness he had seen in Ireland. That had not discriminated between Dane or Irishman.

* * *

“You told them what?!”

“Those were my words, yes,” Edward replied, sullenly, leaning back into his makeshift throne, his fingers steepled beneath his chin.

“The Danes would never agree to those terms. They have the upper hand! They only need to summon their men from Ireland and we’ll be caught out in the open between two lots of them!”

“They must know that we will not follow the old ways, we will not pay them for the privilege of holding our own city. They have their own territory to the east, they should have kept to that.” Edward’s face was calm, but there was a wobble to his voice that suggested his resolve was breaking again. “I will not be made to buy my city back! I would sooner build a new one!”

“They would argue that the Mercians riding into East Anglia was a violation of the terms agreed with Alfred,” Father Pyrlig exclaimed, exasperated. Once again, he wished it was Beocca here, talking some sense into the king. He missed his former days of simply drinking and fighting. How had he ever been promoted to such a position? Why had he ever agreed to it? “If we give them such conditions, they won’t negotiate. They will grow desperate and turn that desperation against your people.” 

“Lord!” A young boy came running to the royal tent, interrupting the informal war council. Uhtred and the others welcomed the distraction. Tempers were beginning to flare. “The gates are opening.”

That was enough to bring the men to their feet and the impromptu council to an end. They rushed out of the tent, looking towards the city where the gates truly were opening and for the first time in days. It was only the smallest of openings, a number of Danes on the walls above, their bows raised and aimed ahead. The gates were open only enough to allow a cart to be rolled out between two men, its cargo hidden beneath a vast canvas. Their faces were covered and they were quick about their work, dragging the cart a short distance from the city, just beyond the boundary made by the embedded arrows, before they stopped and darted back into the city. The gates closed behind them.

“What is it?” Edward snapped. “What is in that cart? Someone look.”

Finan followed the men as they approached the cart. Even from a distance, he could smell an unholy stench coming from the cart and the first men to reach it were hesitant to pull the canvas back. It was not unlike the smell from the ditch, but there was something different to the stench, a stronger sense of putrid decay.

The man closest to the cart, the one brave enough to be the first to look beneath the canvas, looked and yelped all of a sudden and jumped back, crossing himself fervently. 

“What is it?” Edward shouted. “Show me.” Another man stepped forward and pulled the canvas free, and then they all saw what was underneath. Bodies, stacked five or six high, and nearly all made up of women and children. It was unmistakable what had killed them, you only had to look at the marks on their skin, the blood caked around their mouths, the sickly hue to their skin. 

“Shit,” Sihtric whispered.

“Christ, Christ,” Finan felt the strength leave him then. He stumbled to his knees, clasping the crucifixes at his throat as he looked up from the bodies to the city. No, no, no, this could not be happening. All around him men were crossing themselves and drawing back, their hands on their mouths, desperate not to breathe in the bad air.

The sickness had reached Winchester. And there would be no negotiation now. The sickness did not pick and choose, Finan recalled. 

It only took.


	5. The Spark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If you thought things couldn't get any worse...

Out among the deserted streets of Winchester, barely a mouse could be heard as evening fell. It was not only the Saxons now who remained cowering indoors. The Danes too were staying inside, cautious now of the sickness that seemed to have arrived without warning. Some of the younger ones reckoned it was something only the Saxons could catch, but the older Danes had seen other waves of sickness pass. They knew it didn’t distinguish between Christian or heathen, saint or sinner, but took anyone who stood in its path.

That night, the only people brave enough to be out on the streets were some of the more battle-hardened men, those who would not shirk their guard duty come rain or shine. Some were Sigtryggr’s men from Ireland and some were Haesten’s men, but all of them were out-numbered by their compatriots who chose to keep to the taverns instead, drinking through the last of the ale supplies.

The shouts and screams of that afternoon had long since faded away into nothing. The braver of the Danes, their mouths covered, had gone through each quarter of the city, finding anyone complaining of a cough or a fever, and shutting them and their kin into their houses, hammering the doors and windows shut. Those already dead (or close enough to) were brought out, piled up, and carried from the city in a wagon. No Dane had wanted to do this job and it had instead been relegated to some Saxon priests at swordpoint. The Danes had their own reasons for fearing the sickness, beyond mere pain or discomfort. No warrior wanted to miss the chance and the glory of Valhalla by dying of something as mundane as the pestilence. 

It seemed that most of the sickness was confined to only one corner of the city and so the Danes made to contain it fast. They closed the streets and forced the people there back into their homes, threatening those who complained with a quicker death on the point of a sword. All the while, one walked among them, a heavily-pregnant woman in armour, not caring to cover her face. She was loudly telling anyone who would listen that they should burn them, burn all of the sick Saxons alive. That would be the only way to solve this problem. Mercifully, no one was listening to her.

At the Crane Inn, a priest was growing irate over his tankard of ale. Father Cenwulf had travelled on foot for many miles, alongside a group of priests, monks and fellow pilgrims, walking the many miles to Winchester to make a pilgrimage to the tomb of King Alfred. He had never even reached the tomb. Instead, he had been caught up in a heathen invasion and forced to take shelter in this infernal cesspit of a city.

He sat at one of the tables, stewing over his misfortunes and wondering if he would ever see the gentle rolling hills of his parish again. One of the tavern’s wenches walked over and offered him some more ale, but he waved her away, all the time aware of the lack of coin in his purse. Food and drink was growing scarce now and therefore more expensive by the day. The tavern owner was not a charitable man and Father Cenwulf might have hoped for some hospitality from his fellow clergy, but the canons at the cathedral had barred their doors to all, Christian and pagan alike, fearing for their treasures within. 

He tried to quell his grumbling stomach with prayer, but he had never been much of a praying man in comfortable times. He vowed to himself, if he was to make it out of this siege alive, he would never go on pilgrimage again. He would stay and tend to his flock from the comfort of his own home.

It was then that Wulfric joined him. Wulfric was an older monk from the monastery local to his parish and he had been the unofficial leader of their pilgrimage. It had been him who had talked Cenwulf and the others into leaving the safety of their church and cloisters to make the long, arduous journey south. He was renowned for having travelled widely in his youth, some said he had been to Rome and even Jerusalem, and it had been this sense of wanderlust that he had meant to instil in his younger brethren. But Wulfric was no simple travelling cleric—he had made his journeys as a young man and warrior. Even now, aged and missing his sword arm, he was more a match for their Dane foes than the heathens would ever know. They had been foolish to see only his disability and his priestly garb and to let him live.

“Another day in this hellhole, Brother Wulfic,” Cenwulf said. He hoped Wulfric was feeling charitable and might spare him a coin or two to buy some grub, but then he remembered Wulfric was fasting today. No wonder the old warrior looked foul-tempered.

“Hell would be more preferable, Father. I fear the devils would make better company than the Danes.” He drummed his remaining fingers against the table. “And now the sickness is making its rounds.” Both men crossed themselves out of habit. 

“Where is Edward?” Cenwulf hissed. “It has been ten days already, probably more. Does he mean to wait for us all to starve or sicken before he attacks? What is a king anyway without his capital?”

“His father would never have allowed it.” It was then Cenwulf recalled something else about Wulfric. How the old monk had once served Alfred as a palace guard in Winchester. “Then again, Alfred did lose Wessex for months one time, and sought refuge in the marshes.”

“How did he win Winchester back?” Cenwulf barely remembered the brief time Danes had ruled. He had been a novice, busy at his books, barely noticing the world outside of his monastery.

“He had men still who believed in him,” Wulfric said, his fingers pausing mid-drum. “And he had Uhtred.”

“Uhtred the pagan?”

“Uhtred the Dane-slayer,” Wulfric paused. 

“Can this Dane-slayer walk through walls?” Cenwulf sneered.

“No, but Edward’s men only need help from the inside. If we can secure the gate for them and allow them to pass through…”

“Have you seen how many Danes are on the walls? It would be suicide!”

“There are more of us than there are of them. Four Saxons perhaps to every one Dane.”

“Women and children,” Cenwulf wrinkled his nose. “The odds aren’t good.”

“I’d favour a housewife, a small child, or a broken old man over a stranger who does not know our ways,” the old monk said. “Or know the streets of this city as well as us.” 

“It is madness. You will see us all killed!”

“You’d sooner wait for death, Father?”

“I’d sooner not chase it!” 

Cenwulf had not realised how loud they were getting or how much attention they were attracting. The innkeeper was watching them warily from behind the bar, but he needn’t have worried. Most of the inn’s patrons were like Cenwulf, visitors stranded against their will and all Saxon to boot. Some looked away, nervous not to be seen getting involved with this, but others were watching them with interest.

“We can bring this siege to an end, one way or another,” Wulfric said, in a low voice. “But however we end it, we need to do it soon. You want to see your home again?”

Cenwulf paused, before nodding.

“Good. Then this is what we’ll do...” 

* * *

“You need to drink.”

His mind was wandering again. He was remembering that moment of theirs, the night beside the stream, when he had found Eadith, holding a sickening Ælfwynn to her and begging her to drink, the little girl only staring out with glassy eyes. They were all exhausted that evening, following their second hard day on the run. There was no light-hearted conversation before bed. Eadith had made her excuses as the others made camp, walking Ælfwynn down to the pool again. 

“Please, Ælfwynn, just a sip. It’ll make you feel better.” The little girl, her lips dry and cracked, only shook her head. She went to speak, but began to cough instead, the cough wracking through her. Eadith held her all the while, rubbing her back and rocking her, humming under her breath as she did so.

Finan did not know what to do. He looked at Ælfwynn and saw only the dead piling up in his village. He saw only the sick faces staring up at him. He saw his father’s face, wracked with pain and fever, darkened by boils and pustules, mumbling as the blood bubbled at his lips. The blood stained sheets they wrapped him in.

He took a step back, but his foot caught a twig and it snapped, the sound ringing out among the clearing. Eadith’s head shot up, but she relaxed when she realised it was him.

“How’s she doing?” Finan asked, his voice a little too bright to be genuine. 

“She’s…” Eadith hesitated then; perhaps she was worried about scaring her charge with the truth, perhaps she worried how he would react. But she couldn’t hold it in. 

“I don’t know,” she answered, truthfully. She needed someone then to turn to, to share the burden of the life draining out before her. It would have been hard if it had been any child, but it was harder still knowing that the future of Mercia depended on keeping this child alive. Æthelred’s heir, granddaughter of Alfred. It was too much to rest on the shoulders of one adult, let alone one child.

Eadith continued to hold her hand in the pool, bringing it up to press against the girl’s face. She explained in a hushed voice that she was not used to sickness, not used to caring for anyone when ill, but that she vaguely remembered her own mother placing cold presses on her head as a child. All the little girl seemed to want to do was sleep, resting heavily against Eadith’s shoulder, but the coughing fits would not let her rest. 

Finan watched them nervously still. Every instinct in him told him to back away, to return to the camp and to avoid both of them like the… well, like the plague for however long they remained on the road. But something stopped him. Wondering just where his senses had gone, he crouched down beside them, albeit a few paces away and upwind. 

“I don’t know what to do,” Eadith admitted, holding Ælfwynn to her. “She only seems to be getting hotter. I’m scared that-” She did not finish her words, the girl stirring in her arms. Finan understood what scared her.

He supposed if things went bad, it would look bad on all of them, but her especially. She was the spurned mistress killing her lover’s child, the treacherous sister, who would thwart her brother’s claim to Mercia by killing his child-bride on the road. Not that anyone in their right mind thought that marrying Ælfwynn off now was a good idea. And not that Æthelred had ever considered Ælfwynn his own; he was known to loudly doubt her paternity to all who listened. But Æthelred would be six feet under now with any luck, and with him all of his bitterness. Eadith, however, with or without Æthelred, could only hope to return to Ægelesburg, to her home, with the princess alive and well. 

She did not have to say her worries, they were etched all over her face. Finan wished there was something he could say, something he could do to make things right, but he was stumped. All he could think to do was to reach for a drinking skin on his belt.

“Here,” he said, cupping his hand. He poured a little bit of the drink into his palm. Eadith’s nose twitched at the smell: it was cider, sweet and potent. He brought his hand to the girl’s mouth and she drank it, licking her lips when she had finished. Her eyes opened, expecting more, and Finan passed Eadith his drinking skin. She took a swig herself, before she popped off the top and re-filled it with water from the stream, diluting it as best as she could. When she brought it to Ælfwynn again, the girl seemed happier to drink it and when she coughed again, her cough did not sound so hoarse.

Finan had discreetly stuck his hand in the stream, desperate to wash off any threat of sickness. He knew Uhtred and the others thought it was carried on the air, but he had been raised to believe it spread by touch. Even now, looking at his fingers below the water surface, he thought he saw his father’s hand reaching out to grab him, dark patches gnawing into his skin. He hastily retrieved his hand, rubbing it dry against his tunic.

“Thank you,” Eadith said, as Ælfwynn settled against her, her face not looking so flushed this time. She went to hand the skin back to Finan, but he waved her off. He had a waterskin and he could always find another one when they reached Ceaster. “What was that?”

“Cider. From Saltwic, the Lady Æthelflæd’s own orchards. She’d have my balls if she knew I was giving it to her little girl, but it can’t hurt.”

It had done something. Perhaps it was the strong pang of the alcohol or perhaps it was only the sweetness, but Ælfwynn seemed to brighten up a little bit, pulling on Eadith’s sleeve and asking if they could go back to the others now. She was tired and felt cold and wanted to sleep.

It was then that Æthelstan appeared, Finan’s little shadow. Finan had been surprised the boy had not made an appearance sooner. He had probably sussed where they were and was hoping Finan would play some more games with him, perhaps take him to see if their miniature mud Winchester stood still on the banks of the stream. 

“Aren’t you supposed to be sleeping?” Finan asked, as the boy began to clamber up his back, like an overexcited puppy. 

Æthelstan shook his head, wrapping his arms around Finan’s shoulders, but Finan was already lifting him up. 

“I’d better get him back,” he said, and Eadith nodded, helping Ælfwynn back up to her feet. The girl still seemed subdued, but her colour was better and she clutched the skin to her chest. Finan could swear on the restorative power of alcohol, but he hoped for his sake that this story would never reach Æthelflæd’s ears... 

The four of them walked back to the camp together, looking to unfamiliar eyes almost like a family. 

* * *

Ever since they had come across the wagon, ever since they had learned of the sickness raging in Winchester, Finan had been thinking back to those days on the run. How quickly Ælfwynn had sickened. He did not know how the rest of them had made it without getting sick, first when on the run and then in the crowded streets of Ægelesburg. He had put it down to luck, but perhaps that luck was beginning to run out on them. 

He thought of Winchester’s enclosed walls, of the sick trapped within them. He thought of Eadith and Stiorra and Æthelstan, growing flush, getting feverish. Whenever he saw them, his thoughts naturally turned back to another sickroom, years before. How his father’s clawed hand had reached out for him, heavy with black pustules. How the blood had frothed at his father’s mouth as he cursed him with his dying breath for being a coward, as his strength left him and Finan had fled from his bedside.

He was not a coward, but the thought of what lay ahead of him gnawed at him, like a dog at a bone. The thought of sickness, of fighting a battle within himself, of the loss of control over himself. He was a coward, but not in the way his father thought he was. He would have rather taken a hundred blows of the sword, than to face the inevitability of the sickness. But he had conquered his fears before, and he would do so again. 

He would face it tonight. And he would survive, or he would die. What was it that Uhtred liked to say: fate is inexorable, destiny is all? He supposed, as he brought both crucifixes to his lips again, watching the sky darken above them, he would have to put his trust in fate.

* * *

“Has there been any news?” 

King Edward was impatient. He knew well enough of the risk of poking the wasp nest that was Winchester under the Danes, but he was an impatient man at the best of times and this siege was only setting his nerves further on edge with each passing day. Every time he looked at the walls of Winchester, locked against him (his own city!), all he could think about was what his father’s chronicle would have said. Alfred’s history would have torn his reign to shreds already and he supposed he half-deserved it. He had failed to bring Mercia to heel, he failed to keep his family under control, and now he had lost the very jewel of his country. His father had lost Winchester, but he had followed his defeat with Ethandun and with a glorious victory that had neutralised the Dane threat for the time being. What did Edward have?

He knew there would be no decisive battle ahead, no Ethandun to reclaim any lost glory. The only option that lay before him, though he hated it, hated to even consider it, was the idea of putting the city to the torch. Tactically, it made a great deal of sense. Cities could be rebuilt and he would have effectively removed a Dane army in one brutal sweep. There would be retaliation (Pyrlig liked to remind him that Sigtryggr’s brother was raiding in the north and would come south upon hearing of his brother’s fate), but perhaps other Danes and other threats would learn not to cross Edward again. It would stain his reign in the blood of innocents, but it would make him a king that could not be coerced.

But, then again, it was not only innocents that would be caught in the midst of the inferno. Edward’s wife, his mother, his sons… He cursed his mother’s meddling again. Had she have left the boy alone to his monastery and to his books, he would never have been caught up in all of this, never used as a pawn against his own father. Now both of his sons were under threat and while Edward was resolved to lose the city, he was not quite resolved to lose his family in one brutal sweep.

“None, Lord, from the city” Father Pyrlig sighed, looking again to the distant rooftops of the city, silhouetted against a darkening night sky. “But your sister sends word. She has left Eoferwic and is riding with her men. Mercia will not stand aside while Wessex struggles.”

“Not long ago it was the other way around,” Edward sniffed. “I gave the Danes a clear option and now they throw it back in my face with their silence. It is like they want to see me destroy everything around them.”

“Lord, they’re testing you, but they are men. They can be reasoned with. And they have your family.”

“A family that I have now resigned to their fate with my words!” Edward snapped. “Either I am to look weak or I am to watch my family and my people die.”

“Time, Lord, give it time…” 

“We do not have time,” Edward snarled. “For all we know the Danes might have summoned their kin from the north and from Ireland. They could be marching this very well and trap us against the city walls!” He looked back to the gates, still defiantly closed to him. “Where is Uhtred?”

“Lord?”

“Where is Uhtred? Bring him here at once!”

One of Edward’s pages bowed and went to run and find Uhtred. He found him sitting with his men by the fire, sharpening and honing their weapons. The page paused, eyes widening, as he beheld what the men were wearing: Dane amulets, leathers, the traced images of Dane tattoos on their faces. 

“Lord Uhtred,” the boy spoke up. “The king wishes to see you.”

“Tell the king I am occupied,” was Uhtred’s response. The Irishman who stood often at his side was slipping golden arm rings up his bare arms, one by one. He paused and turned to the other man, showing off the treasure. The smaller man shook his head, rolled his eyes and went back to sharpening his blade.

“The king commands-”

“The king wishes first, now he commands. Tell the king, boy, that I have said my piece and now I will follow my own plan. He should’ve thought about that before he made oaths he couldn’t keep and–” But the page was not looking at him, rather he was staring, ashen-faced, towards the distant city.

“Fire,” was all the boy could say. The other men turned to follow his gaze.

It was the smallest of glows in the distance, but the bright hue of the flames were clear against the growing darkness. Even against the night sky, they could see a trail of smoke rising up to the heavens, hear the distant clamour of shouts and cries sounding out from the city.

“Christ,” Finan gasped, taking the two crucifixes at his neck, his and Eadith’s, and bringing them both to his lips. He caught the others’ eyes as the page ran off back in the direction of the king’s tent. Edward needn’t have tortured himself with whether or not he should burn the city.

It seemed that fate had decided for him.

* * *

Cenwulf drew back, the borrowed sword in his hand slick with blood. The Dane before him had been drunk, barely able to sit up before Cenwulf had brought the knife down into his throat, again and again until the man was still and Cenwulf’s hand was shaking and the blood was running over the bench and down his priestly robes.

Oh God, oh God, he whispered, what have I done?

Egbert, a novice from his party, caught his eye. The boy might as well have been a butcher, his sleeves and face splattered with gore. He stared at Cenwulf with the wide-eyed stare of a boy used to gentler things.

They had been fortunate to find the Danes in this inn to be further in their cups than they had realised. There had been some mocking insults when the priests had entered, but this mockery had turned to shock when the priests had turned on them, falling onto them with concealed blades. Not all of the Danes had been taken by surprise, some had fought back, some had fled. Cenwulf had nearly tripped over Brother Orderic’s body, resting in a pool of blood at his feet. The Dane had all but taken the monk’s head off before Wulfric had finished him.

Wulfric was gone now, having gone to speak to the innkeeper and his wife, who had barricaded themselves in fear in the backroom. They needed as many Saxon hands as they could get if this was to work. Before the Danes returned with greater numbers and greater strength and put them all to the sword.

Egbert was shaking. He went to take a drink from one of the cups to still his nerves, but the cup shook and he only splashed himself with ale. 

“Be careful, you fool,” Cenwulf snapped, but the boy did not hear him. He was mumbling something to himself. He did not see the Dane stirring on the floor until it was too late.

The Dane had died as the heathen liked to do, with their sword in their hand—or so they had thought. But the Dane was only playing dead. With one snake-fast move, he sat up and pierced Egbert through on his blade, the end of his sword sticking out of the boy’s stomach. He drew back and Egbert stumbled. He collapsed onto the table, his sleeve catching a lit candle, and before Cenwulf could say so much as a watch out, the boy and the table was ablaze.

He drew back in shock as did Godric, another novice behind him. Cenwulf went to try and smack the flames growing out of the wool and the table, but sparks were already spreading, falling onto the ale-soaked rushes below. Before he could as much as take another breath, the rushes beneath his feet had caught alight and it was all he could do to stumble out of the inn, following the panicked rush of bloody Saxons and Danes alike.

Wulfric had managed to cajole the innkeeper and his wife out of hiding only to find the taproom already in flames in only the few moments he was away. He could only make out dark shapes amidst the flames, but nothing else. The innkeeper drew him back, out of the backdoor and to the safety of the cool night air. From the street, people were shouting, screaming for water and to form a chain, but it was too late. The fire had reached the thatch and was rising, in a towering inferno, to preside over the fallen city.

* * *

Young Uhtred looked up at the walls and then back to his father.

“You think I can do it?” he whispered.

“You’re our best chance,” Uhtred whispered back. “Do you remember when you were little at Coccham?”

“Before Mother–”

“Yes,” Uhtred said, quickly, the memory already coming as a lump to his throat. “Your mother thought her hair would go white the times you would scale up a wall or climb a tree. You always knew how to climb up, but never how to come down again.”

“Don’t you remember that time your father made me climb the tree after you?” Finan interjected. “Then we both got stuck and they had to fetch a blanket.”

Young Uhtred shook his head, but Sihtric and Osferth both snorted—they remembered that incident well enough.

Uhtred too was smiling, but his jaw was clenched as he surveyed the city walls before them. He gave his son a roll of rope, bringing it over his shoulder. “I hope your priest friends didn’t let your climbing skills go to waste.” 

“And if I break my neck?” 

“We’ll get Father Pyrlig to say prayers for you to your god and when we are done rescuing your sister, she can have a good laugh at your expense.” Young Uhtred flushed at the thought, but his father’s words had succeeded at turning his thoughts to his younger sister, trapped somewhere in that heathen-blighted city. He swallowed back his fear and turned to his father.

“Can you give me a leg up?”

They waited in the shelter of a thicket of trees, watching the walls. They could make out the faint glow of torches on the walkway, and the odd head moving past. 

“Where is Edward?” Finan was itching to get into the city and to get this over with. The large man was all but bouncing on the spot. “Where’s that little royal turd?”

They looked to the west and, sure enough, there came a single flaming arrow in the air, soaring over the city. It purposely missed the city, landing in the field beside them. On the walls, there seemed to be a pause, before heads were moving, a horn was sounding. From somewhere to their right came the distant rumble of hooves, of an army on the move.

“That’s the signal, go,” Uhtred whispered.

It had not been hard to bring Edward onboard with their plan once he had seen the spark catch in his city. He knew now, more than ever, that time was of the essence if he ever hoped to see his family alive again. There was no what-ifs now. Edward would drive his army at the city walls, keeping the Danes hopefully distracted long enough for Uhtred and his men to sneak into the city and to rescue the hostages.

Finan and Sihtric both made their hands into stirrups and lifted young Uhtred up towards the tree above. He managed to grab one of the lower branches, pulling himself up with a grunt. From there, he climbed up, clambering up until the others below could no longer see him, only hearing the leaves rustle up ahead.

Young Uhtred clambered up, getting as close to the wall as the tree would let him. He had pretended not to remember, but he remembered climbing at Coccham as a child well enough, the memory also proving to be too painful for him to recall. He did not remember feeling this nervous when he climbed then or his hands shaking this much. Perhaps his time at the monastery had taught him fear as well as humility. 

As he neared the wall, he looked towards the walkway. This stretch of the wall was mercifully empty, the Danes guarding here having made for the gates where the action was starting to kick off. Young Uhtred tried to climb closer, but the branches here were weaker and they shook worse than his hands did under his weight. He slipped down to a lower branch, crawling along it as close as he could to the wall. 

The wall was built mostly of brick and stone, and while it was impenetrable to battering rams and armies, its rough surface with the odd stone sticking out was ideal for a climber. Young Uhtred spotted a particularly uneven section of the wall, offered up a prayer to God for himself and for Stiorra, and then jumped for it, grasping at the wall. For a terrifying moment, he slipped, only his fingernails gripping at the wall, but he did not slip far. His feet found a ledge and he found his breath again.

Down on the ground, they had watched young Uhtred’s jump and struggle, their own hearts in their mouths. Uhtred’s eyes would not leave his son, offering up a prayer to his gods, to any who were listening, to keep him safe. 

But young Uhtred had fate on his side that night. He steadied himself and began to climb, clinging to the exposed bricks of the wall. He was nimble, and was soon pulling himself over the top of the wall, securing the rope, and throwing it over the side of the wall. His wave was their signal to move.

Uhtred went first. He holstered his sword on his back and grasped the rope, giving it a hearty tug before he began to climb up the side of the wall. It was a hard climb on his arms and back, but he was soon over the top of the wall, and Finan was taking the rope next.

They were soon all up and the rope had been retrieved and stowed away. This section of the wall was deserted; the rest of the Dane guards were drawn to the action at the gates. Still, they had to move quickly if they had any hope of succeeding. The houses here stood closer to the walls, their thatch roofs scraping against the wall’s side. Alfred had been trying to legislate against this for years, seeing them as a security risk for enemies to climb in and out of the city at will. Uhtred was only glad he had not succeeded there.

From this vantage point, they had a good view of the city. Some of the houses in the city’s central quarter, off of the main thoroughfare, were currently ablaze. It was no small fire as they had hoped, but an inferno that seemed to be growing with every passing moment. There were shouts on the street and Finan could make out movement between the buildings, as Saxons and Danes alike moved to tackle the flames. 

“Come on!” Sihtric called, before he jumped down into the heavy dry thatch of the house below. Finan followed him, followed by the others. It was not the most comfortable of landings, the thatch sharp, and they had to be discreet as they rolled off, a sudden commotion coming from the street below. It was a small force of Saxons, recognisable by their dress. All, but one of them, wore the dress of a priest or monk, but they did not look like your usual holy men. They were bloodied, carrying weapons that were equally gore-splattered. One of their party was injured, bleeding from a nasty head wound, and they were half-dragging the man away from the fighting, bickering amongst themselves about what to do. 

Young Uhtred moved to join them, but Uhtred held him back, bringing a finger to his lips. They were on a rescue mission, and could not be distracted. Young Uhtred flushed and made to argue, but it was Finan’s hand over his mouth next.

“Your sister,” he hissed into the boy’s ear. “Let’s get your sister and the others safe and out of here, then you can fight your fight.”

It was too late anyway. One of the younger priests had spotted them from within the shadows and was signalling to the others, his mouth agape as he stared at them. He went to raise his blade, still slick with the blood of his last enemy, but Sihtric merely knocked it out of his hand. The others of his group had all stopped, watching the Danes before them with a mixture of fear and hostility.

“Do you know who I am?” Uhtred hissed, drawing himself out into the light. Most of the priests did not know him from Adam, but one of them recognised him somehow. He let out a gasp, falling to his knees.

“Thank God, it’s the Dane-slayer!”

“Lower your voice, man!” Finan snapped. “Before you kill us all.” 

“Uhtred? The pagan?” The others in his group did not seem so impressed. “Is he not a priest-killer?”

“Do not give him reason to add to his count,” Sihtric hissed. “Who is it who leads here?”

The priests looked among themselves.

“Wulfric told us to make a stand and fight,” one of the priests said. He was about the same age as Uhtred, but the years hadn’t been so kind to him. He was balding with a tuft of hair that gave him a natural tonsure.

“Who are you?”

“Cenwulf. Father Cenwulf of Cirencester,” the man said, gruffly enough, although he was clearly trembling, struggling to hold the borrowed sword in his hand.

“And Wulfric told you to fight…?”

“To fight and slay the Dane and to recapture the city if Edward wouldn’t, but…” Cenwulf’s watery eyes were turning towards the city’s centre where, even from here, the could see the flames licking at the sky. “But the fighting turned ugly. The heathen wouldn’t die! And now we’ve brought hell onto ourselves.”

Uhtred took that all in. He nodded at Finan and Finan chased the gaggle of priests away, promising them some diabolically cruel punishments if they dared breathe a word of Uhtred being in the city. 

“Things are worse than we thought,” Uhtred whispered, as his men drew close.

“Do you reckon they’ll have killed many of the Danes?” Osferth asked.

Finan shook his head.

“I wouldn’t be surprised if most of the blood on them is from themselves. You saw how they stood, how they held the blade? It’s a miracle they were holding it by the right end.”

Sihtric snorted, but there was no humour in the sound. There were voices all of a sudden ahead, distant shouts and screams, the slash of blades. Finan collared young Uhtred by the scruff of the neck and they all narrowly darted back into the shadows as a familiar figure appeared, surrounded by four guards.

“Bastard priests,” Haesten was saying aloud. He was wiping his blade on his sleeve and Finan felt the tremble go through young Uhtred, had to tighten his grip on the boy’s shoulder for fear he would rush out and avenge the gaggle of priests. 

“They attacked the Goose?”

“Aye, Lord. They rushed us before we knew what was happening. Those who were sober enough to fight back did, but there were too many of them and then the Holy Arms was on fire and–”

“Did any of you fools think to fight back? They could barely hold their swords!”

“They were like a band of devils. We couldn’t hold them all off!”

“And the woman? Did one of you grab the woman?”

It was Finan’s turn to flinch. He listened with bated breath as Haesten and his men moved off, their voices growing lower.

“... we couldn’t hold them off and climb the ladder and–” There was a sudden shout and Haesten and his men were drawing back. There were shouts from somewhere off in the distance and Haesten was shaking his head.

“The palace,” he was roaring to his men, now down to two. “The palace! Quick! Before the bastards kill us all.” 

Uhtred and the others held back, watching as the Danes were chased back, this time by a larger mob. These were not just simple priests, but the old, the infirm, women and children, carrying whatever they could as they pushed against the Danes.

Finan’s mind was whirling. The Goose? The Goose, that was where Eadith had to be! 

But he knew just where the Goose was situated in the city. It was at the city’s very heart, the same heart that was now on fire.


End file.
